For a moment it gets hard to breathe
by Green Queen of Clubs
Summary: It takes two hours for Clint to get interested by Agent Coulson, two months for him to lust after Coulson, and a year to fall him love with Phil. Surprisingly it takes four years of pining from afar for a bad guy to notice it. ClintxCoulson. Torture and non-con between Clint and an OC. Happy ending I swear.
1. 1-The giving up is the hardest part

**A/N:I'm back! I thought I had to do a note this time, because this will be very different from my others stories. There'll be a lot of angst and pining. Most of all, there will be torture and non-con (between an OC and Clint), and the traumatism that can be expected from him. I don't think it will be too graphic, but it's definitely a M rating. **

**I hope you'll enjoy, and reviews are always much appreciated!**

**OOOOOOOO**

Clint was sprawled out as much as the uncomfortable chair would allow it, staring into space, since the briefing room didn't offer a lot of mildly interesting things he could fixate on. He didn't know why he was here at all. It wasn't as if his job was that complicated. Hard, maybe, since he was apparently the only one able to do it if the number of missions he was requested on was any indication, but certainly not complicated. Spot the bad guy, shoot the bad guy, bad guy dies, end of story. Waiting around was the most difficult part. All he ever needed was a picture, or even better some video feed of his target and he was good. But no, apparently he wasn't yet considered competent enough to survive by himself, he had to take his orders from a couple analysts who haven't seen the real world in, at least, more than a decade.

The only victory he had made in nearly five years of employment was the freedom to choose his own perch, and even then, he had to transmit his position to the rest of the team. Otherwise, he had to do as he was told. Which wasn't something he was really good at. He knew his disciplinary file was probably bigger than anyone else's in the entire division at the moment, maybe even larger than all of the rest put together. and more than one person was wondering how the hell he hadn't been sent back to the streets, or had his contract terminated in a more permanent way.

Clint knew. But he knew why they put up with all his shit. It always boiled down to being the best. The Amazing Hawkeye. The best fucking marksman in the world. So good that even high and mighty S.H.I.E.L.D. couldn't do without him anymore. So fucking good they were afraid of how much damage he could do if he went freelance again. He had been a very effective and dangerous mercenary in the past, had been in great demand, and that was before he was recruited. Now he was as good, maybe even better, and he had intimate knowledge of one of the most influential agency in the world, and he knew more than a few secrets about others.

The CIA was depressingly bad at keeping secrets.

Sometimes, Clint pondered as he lay in the chair, he wondered why he stayed at all. He wanted to fight the good fight and all that, but he couldn't help but consider doing so on his own. Surely he could be more efficient if he didn't even have to pretend to abide the law and take orders, and do everything in such a stringent, procedural way. He'd be freer. He'd probably even be able to convince Tasha to come with him.

He started slightly when he heard the three sharp knocks on the table. He would have jumped up and attacked if he hadn't trained this kind of reaction out of himself. You couldn't jump when you had a riffle in your hands.

He looked at the offender slowly, to keep from down appearing surprised. Coulson was looking at him, face blank as a slate for everyone else in the room. To be fair, his face in itself was also unreadable to Clint, but the archer could see the slight glint in his eyes, the understanding one that said 'I know you're bored, but act like you're paying attention.' Clint nodded once, straightened up in his chair, and turned his attention to Agent Maria Hill who was talking about experimental drugs or something along those lines.

Clint looked at the man beside him and repressed a sigh that threatened to come out. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was the main reason he had stayed at S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent Phil Fucking Coulson. The Agent. Why, you would ask? Not that hard to figure out.

Because Clint had only been at S.H.I.E.L.D. for a few months when he had succeeded in exasperating and/or scaring away all the other senior agents. He wasn't even trying to, at the time. But he had spent most of his life running, taking care of himself, and trusting no one. So when thrown in a quasi-normal environment, with rules, it was no surprise that he had _difficulties _adapting. His work was irreproachable, he succeeded in every mission he was given. However, when he was at base, he simply could not manage it. He never seeked medical attention, stealing medical supplies when no one was looking, stitching himself up and dressing his own wounds, because if someone knew you were hurt, they had the advantage, or they would fix it wrong so that it still hurt for a while afterward.

He never slept in his quarters, always finding a hidden corner to hide in, never in the same place, so that no one could attack him in his sleep. He rarely reported to his handlers, whoever they were, because he simply couldn't bring himself to trust them, and accepting that they _were _responsible for his well-being and actions demanded more confidence in them than he had to spare.

So the first few months had been complete hell for all involved, and Barton was making arrangements to run and disappear, and he honestly didn't believe that anyone would follow him. Then, one morning Fury managed to corner him while he was practicing on the shooting range, At five in the morning. It was the only time he was sure he wouldn't be interrupted, or gain himself an audience of idiots who came to witness the freak show he was. The Director marched right up to him, towering over him, his one eye digging into all the dark corners of Clint's soul-or what little remained of it.

"You will report to Agent Coulson at 0-900, Barton."

Clint was thrown, because Coulson was famous at S.H.I.E.L.D., and because he never handled junior agents, acting mainly as a field operation supervisor. If Clint was dumped to him, he really had gone through all the senior agents - save Fury himself. He didn't need to be told this was his last chance.

His first meeting with Coulson was unlike any other meeting with a new handler that he had ever had. Clint had entered the office at 0,940, his gaze falling on the man that could make Agent Parker cry. The Agent had simply looked up, not a trace of a smile on his lips, before gesturing to the chairs with one hand, while he put away the file he was working on with the other.

"Agent Barton."

"Sir."

No matter how hard he tried, he had never been able to fake respect, something that caused him trouble more than once - but Coulson didn't seem to care. He simply tilted his head to the side, a tiny, nearly imperceptible smile ghosting across his lips.

"I have been made aware of your previous interaction with S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, and the resulting consequences. I consider important to explain to you how I work, and I hope you won't find objections to it."

Clint bristled, preparing himself for restraints that he wouldn't be able to bend to, and punishments that would drive him insane with shame and self-loathing. Coulson simply straightened his head.

"Earlier this morning, I went through the base and emptied all your medical caches. For now on, if you wish to circumvent traditional medical care and patch yourself up, please come here, where I can, at the very least, assess your injuries."

Clint narrowed his eyes in disbelief and indignantly opened his mouth to speak, but Coulson beat him to it.

"Yes, even the one at the back of Agent's Hill underwear drawer. I must give you credit for the excellent camouflage and the out of the box thinking. If this is going to work, Agent Barton, I need this much trust. I need to know that you are doing fine. It is my responsibility as a handler. In return, I will promise not to put it in any reports or tell anyone about it, and I won't force you to seek medical attention unless I observe the injury to be life threatening."

Clint clenched his jaw. He already knew he wouldn't do it, So he just glared at Coulson. Just another fucking suit. The man continued, unabated.

"I do not mind you sleeping in remote locations, as long as you do not become sleep deprived. Also, if a matter arises with one of your colleagues, I would appreciate it if you were to come to me with it. But if you are not able to, for any reason, please refrain from leaving any permanent damage, physical or psychological."

He stopped there, simply looking at him for a long moment, as if expecting Clint to question him.

"Is that all, sir?"

Coulson didn't falter.

"You tell me, Agent Barton."

The archer didn't even bother answering, got up and left, convinced S.H.I.E.L.D. would fire him or try to kill him within two months' time.

They didn't. For nearly five years now Coulson has been his handler, though he has worked with others on occasion, like now - where Hill was the Agent in charge of the mission. Coulson was only there because Clint and Hill sometimes needed a buffer. Two months, however, was exactly how long it took him to start fantasizing about Coulson.

It took him about another year to fall with love with him. And if that wasn't that the bane of Clint's existence, falling in love, It became a source of endless amusement for Natasha. Russian scum that she was.

So yes, all in all, Clint stayed because of Phil. Sure, he had other friends in the agency: you should see him and Sitwell when they managed to get time out for their football games with a few others agents, but it wouldn't have been enough to settle him.

Coulson could, however. Coulson, with his perfect poker face and his vastly expressive eyes. Coulson, with his soft smile and beautiful laugh that Clint has only managed to draw out of him twice. Motherfucking Coulson and all his badassery that made him one of the best agents in the whole organization, though he had an amazing knack for refusing promotions. The man who always seemed to get Clint, despite the fact that he _couldn't understand him, no one could, _and he never lost patience, no matter how much of a jackass Clint was.

Clint startled out of his reverie and turned when Hill said his name, but she was only pointing out the fact that he would be the one to take out the Bad Guy. Clint turned to Coulson, to complain with his eyes that this was boring and he wanted out, because he didn't need to be here. It wouldn't change anything, Coulson strongly believed in briefing, but it always felt good to complain.

However, when Clint looked at his handler, he saw him typing on his phone, and the archer braced himself for the familiar flare of jealousy that racked his body and choked him. Not because Coulson was allowed to text in a briefing when Clint wasn't, no matter how much better he would feel if he could, but because Coulson was texting someone.

About a year ago, Clint had stolen Hill's phone, putting his life seriously on the line, to get Phil's number after he had seen the agent with his cell while spying through the vents. He had sent him a short text, just enough for the agent to know that it was him, but he never got a reply. He tried asking questions, but Coulson would only ever answer later, when he saw Clint face to face. The archer took the hint - yes, he was able to - and accepted that the phone was part of Phil's personal life that the agent didn't want Clint in.

Clint could understand, but it didn't help soothe the hurt away. Neither did it kept him from running himself to the ground in training, spending hours jumping around and shooting dummies. Coulson was the one to find Clint. Of course he was. Clint brushed the man's concern away with cheap excuses about nightmares, not wanting to waste Coulson's time more than he already did. Ever since, he did his best to remain professional and poised, and he had stopped flirting over the comms. He stopped talking about it to Tasha. He knew she was worried, but didn't comment. She wasn't able to understand love, not in that way, and didn't bother to pretend with him.

So Clint pined from afar, berating himself for being stupid, being insanely jealous over the hypothetical partner receiving Coulson's texts. He forced his eyes away from the phone just in time, as the man pressed 'Send' and closed it, slipping the phone back in his pocket.

Clint was dying to know what he wrote. Was he planning a date? Who was the lucky one? Was it a man and or woman? Clint always pegged Coulson as bisexual, and Natasha agreed with him. The thought of Coulson with a woman hurt a little less than the thought of him with another man, someone other than Clint. The Archer mentaly shook himself and tried to pay attention to Hill. What a sad life he lived when listening to a debriefing was the least painful option.

Finally, Hill sent them away, reminding them they left at 0,500 the day after. Clint jumped on his feet and barged out before anyone even started putting away their files. Maybe if he was fast enough -

"Barton!"

Fuck. Why wasn't he ever able to outrun him? He sstopped, because, weak as he was, he would never be able to pass up any alone time with Coulson. He turned around, back straight. Coulson was walking toward him, eyes concerned.

"Sir?"

"You seemed out of it today, Barton. Is everything okay?"

Clint bit down the bitter smile, and the "As it'll ever be, sir," and simply nodded.

"Yes sir. A bit tired, thats all."

Coulson scrutinized him, eyes narrowed, but he didn't push, knowing after all this time that if Clint didn't volunteer the information, nothing would make him budge. He simple nodded too, at the end.

"You shouldn't wear yourself so thin training, Barton."

Clint tried to stamp down the warm feeling at Coulson's concern, to no avail. He looked straight ahead, over Coulson's shoulder.

"I'll try, sir."

Coulson pinched his lips, having worked with Barton long enough to know that they were empty words. He would do the exact same thing the next time he would need to unwind something that knotted itself too tight in his chest – like Phil did.

"Go get some rest, Agent."

Barton nodded and turned on his heel swiftly, headed toward the underground parking. He should probably stay on base in his quarters, since he had to leave early the next morning, but he couldn't bring himself to. Even after all these years, he had trouble sleeping in the spartan, impersonal rooms, and he knew he wouldn't get any rest if he tried to tonight. So he went down, took his sleek bike and sped to his apartment, breaking more than a few traffic laws in the way.

Once he was inside his building, he took a moment to simply rest his back against the wall of the small hallway, next to his door, letting his head fall back with a loud 'thump' against it. All his bottled emotions came rushing on him all at once, suffocating, intoxicating, and completely overwhelming him. He forced a ragged breath into his lungs, fists clenched tightly. After a few moments, he found the strength to open his eyes. The cream walls were staring at him, encompassing him. He had never found the time and energy to repaint them, although he hated the color. At the end of the hallway was his living room, with his old TV he also never bothered to change and his comfortable couch. But all of this didn't really matter. All he needed in here was his bed and his kitchen. Everything else he had back at HQ.

On the hook in front of him, right in the middle of the closet, as it had been hanging there for years, was a suit. It was his only one, simple, dark blue. It was his, rarely worn, but he always left it there. Sometimes, he would pretend it was one of Coulson's. That the man left it there on his way in, that he was waiting for him on the bed. On very good days, it even meant that Coulson lived here, with him. That they were together, and that the Agent was cooking dinner for them, because he took some nights off once in a while, to spend some time alone with his boyfriend.

Clint never said that he wasn't a pathetic excuse for a human being. He simply didn't advertise the fact. Not even Tasha came here, because Clint couldn't bear the pity in her eyes when she realized just how much Clint _needed _to pretend, otherwise he'd go completely mad.

Clint shut the closet door and started stripping off his clothes, not really seeing where he was going, until he fell on his back in his bed. He took his cock in his hand, and slowly started stroking it, eyes fluttering shut. He managed to relax when his mind supplied him with just what he needed - The calm, warm voice in his ear, as if the man was just beside him, whispering.

"Well, Clint, aren't you eager today?"

Clint didn't answer, simply stroked faster, letting a small smile tug at his lips. Phil - he was always Phil here, not "Sir" - chuckled.

"So that was what was going through that head of yours during the briefing. I was wondering what got you so…spacey."

Clint smiled, moaning slightly, slowing his hand down now that he was fully hard.

"You, Phil. Always you."

Phil chuckled again, and leaned in, so close that Clint could feel his warmth radiating. He basked in it, mouth opening, small gasps puffing out.

"You little minx. What do you want, Clint? Do you want me in you?"

"No, Phil. Please, I can't-I can't wait."

It was true. He had a dildo he could use, but at the moment he simply didn't have the patience. He just needed to get off before leaving. He needed Phil to get him off. He kept himself from reaching over, knowing it would only break the illusion.

"My hand, then."

Phil didn't wait for Clint's answer. He didn't need to. Clint switched hands, and started that little twist that made him go wild. Phil was breathing heavily now, seeing Clint like this always got to him. Clint moaned, breathy and pleased, and Phil growled in answer.

"Do you even know how hot you are? Writhe, darling. Is it good? Is my hand good enough for you to come?"

Clint couldn't even imagine doing anything other than whining and nodding frantically. Phil shifted, his other hand carding through Clint's hair so lightly it could almost have been the wind. The archer gasped for air, he was so close, so very, very, close.

"Go on, Clint. Come for me."

He exploded, body arching completely off the bed, and he yelled Phil's name. He landed back, bouncing lightly, belly and hand covered with strings of come. He breathed heavily, and he felt Phil shift beside him. Clint kept his eyes close, trying to keep the illusion just a while longer. When it was clear Clint wasn't going to let him fade, Phil started talking again.

"I don't like it when you go on missions without me. Fury never lets me know how you're doing. He says I'll be too distracted. I just hate it when I can't watch your back."

It was always the same thing; Clint wasn't imaginative enough to go further than what he wanted Phil to tell him the most. That they had a life together. That _Phil _wanted him in his life. That Phil wanted _him, _as much as he wanted the older man.

The Agent sighed beside him.

"We have to get groceries; we're running low on milk. And mother invited us over for dinner Sunday, assuming you're back by then."

Finally Clint opened his eyes, because he needed to stop now. The next thing out of Phil's mouth would have been an inquiry about what they should have for dinner, and he simply couldn't deal with that tonight. He stared at the ceiling, cold and alone. His heart was so high in his throat it was choking him, tears stinging his eyes. He blinked them away and stood, knees wobbly. He didn't bother to put anything on, it wasn't as if there was anyone to call him on it. Phil would, telling him to put on boxers, at least, because it wasn't hygienic to be around food naked, or dangerous, or whatever he could think about.

He made his way in to the kitchen, digging through the fridge and finding enough leftovers to whip himself up some vegetable fried rice. There was enough for two, but Clint didn't want to think about that. He turned the radio on, unable to deal with the quiet.

"_When you're dreaming with a broken heart,_

_The waking up is the hardest part."_

He smashed the button to silence it. Goddamnit. The universe was teaming up to fuck with his heart. Clint focused on breathing in and out. It would be fine. It was fine, Phil didn't really want him. It was fine, Coulson saw him as nothing more than an agent under his care. Clint would be alright. He could do this. He had done it for four years.

He loved Coulson. And he wanted what was best for him. And that was definitely _not _the nutcase that was him. He was so much better off with whomever he was sending those Damned texts to. Clint would remain behind with 'Phil', who he couldn't hurt, and he'd deal.

He could deal.

He wasn't really sure what he did for the rest of the evening. He was pretty sure he ate, because the dishes wound up in the sink. But otherwise, he could have been staring at the wall for the whole evening. He probably did. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't drink. He never drank just before a mission, Coulson had gave him shit for it once. It was the most annoyed Clint had ever seen the older man, and he had wanted to do nothing more than apologize, over and over, and grovel until he was forgiven. Because he felt horrible, but he knew it wasn't enough. Apologizing was never enough. The Swordsman would have punished him. His father would have punished him. Phil never did, not really. Sure, he made him do paperwork, even suspended him that one time. Never again, though. And never anything physical.

So Clint punished himself. He trained, and trained until his fingers were bloody and he passed out from sheer exhaustion. Because training meant doing good in missions, and doing good in missions meant Phil would look at him with pride afterward, and Clint needed that.  
It was the only time he was okay with Phil not being his, like he so wanted. It didn't matter because Phil was _proud _of him.

Like he said, he never pretended to not be pathetic.

When he woke up at four in the morning, he went to his feet right away, and in ten minutes he was gone, eating a granola bar on the way to the HQ. He arrived just as the clock turned to 0,500, and his gear was already loaded. Coulson was there, talking quietly with Hill. When Clint approached, they both turned toward him, Hill sparing a look to the clock, surprised as she always was that he arrived on time. Coulson looked Clint over, assessing whether he was fit or not. Clint held himself straight under the scrutiny until Hill interrupted them.

"Let's go."

Clint nodded, and went to climb into the chopper, not looking back until Coulson called for him.

"Barton."

Clint hated how his heart jumped desperately at the sound of his name, and kept his expression carefully blank as he turned around. Coulson's eyes were shadowed by the harsh lighting of the roof, and Clint couldn't read anything off his face.

"Yes, sir?"

Coulson's lips twitched.

"Do try to behave."

The archer's heart dropped all the way to his feet, and he winced, berating himself all the while. What was he hoping for, a "Please be careful"? A declaration of love, perhaps? He was barely ever out missions where Coulson wasn't involved in any way, and he had hoped that his handler would have been at least a bit worried. But no, the only thing that Coulson worried about was whether or not Clint would misbehave like the overgrown kid he was.

Clint nodded tightly.

"Will do, sir."

He whirled around and climbed in to the chopper, leaving Coulson behind on the hellipad. Hill and the rest of the team were waiting for him, and they took off as he climbed in. Looking around, he noted the other agents in the helicopter. They were regulars of Hill's team, and, therefore, not people _he _worked with. But he got along fine with most of them, and could ignore the rest. One good thing about being the sniper meant he didn't really have to work _with _them. They were working for the same objective, but that was about as far as their partnership went.

Hill was giving the last minute instructions, glaring at him occasionally to enforce some points. He knew she was daring him to disobey her, but it was useless.

Coulson had told him to behave. No matter how much he resented it, he would do whatever Coulson told him. Hill was asking him to stay put, not to move from his first perch, whichever he chose, because they used a kind of tech that would easily pick up movement. A step one way or another, after he got into position, or worse, a jump, would get him killed.

So he wouldn't move. He could do that. Lay low, shoot the bad guy, and wait for the rest of the team to deal with whatever would try and kill him in the meantime. Sounded like a good plan. Not too demanding.

When they arrived, Barton fell into the easy rhythm of the job. Locating the best perch, he climbed up, settling down with his rifle - he wasn't allowed his bow, due to the lack of movement possible, and waited.

He relished falling into the zone, the comforting blank that permitted him to shoot so perfectly. The place where nothing else, other than the target, himself and his weapon mattered.

Whatever Hill's team were doing, it took them nearly four hours to raise hell in the target's building. Lesser marksmen would have been overwhelmed by the flow of bodies rushing into the street, but Clint remained focused, filtering their faces to make sure he wasn't missing his target. Endless streams of men in boring suits and women in pretty outfits, but not the one he was looking for.

Twice he spotted Agents from his own team, just a flash before vanishing again. But still, his target did not appear. Either the man smelled the trap and stayed behind in some kind of safe place, or he had some other way of fleeing the building. Clint narrowed his eyes, as useless as that was, and focused for a second on his earpiece.

"Does this place have another exit?"

Hill answered, her tone clipped and short.

"No."

Clint exhaled.

"Then he's still inside."

He heard her snap orders to the rest of the team find him, and he zoned out again, giving once more his considerable focus to the scene in front of him. The throng of people cleared slowly. Clint saw a weird van slalom it's through them, and it stopped just under where the target's office would be. Three men exited and started doing something behind the van where he couldn't see them.

"There a van parked in my line of sight."

Hill snapped once more.

"Focus, Hawkeye. It's probably some curious news casters or people who came to help."

Clint pursed his lips, and fought the impulse to go down from the roof to inspect it.

"I don't like it. I should-"

"You will stay where you are."

"Hill. I really think-"

"You're not paid to think, Barton. Stay where you are and shoot when you see the target."

Barton wanted nothing more than to fire a couple of shots to make the van move. 'Do try to behave.' Those words were running in circles in his head, and kept him from using his rifle to scare the van and the people away.

Suddenly, he heard the distinctive sound of breaking glass, and he jumped his riffle up, just in time to see a man jumping through a window above the van. It took a quarter of a second to recognize his target, another to aim, and then he shot. He saw the man jerk when the bullet shot straight through his head, and the dead man continued his fall toward the ground. Clint gritted his teeth. The men from the van must have set a blow up mattress or something behind the van for him to land on. Which meant that one, he was right and someone should have gone and seen what was going on; and two, someone knew where he was perched and managed to find a way to block his sight. He was about to jump to feet, to disappear before someone got to him, when he heard a chuckle.

"Good shot."

He whirled around, knife already in hand when he heard the soft sound of a dart gun and the prick at the side of the neck that meant it had found its target. He just caught a glimpse of his attacker, a petite brunette with the body of a gymnast, who watched him collapsing with a small smile.

He felt his knees buckle, and his head hit the rough grit of the roof, and then he was out.

OOOOOO

**The song playing was **_**Dreaming with a broken heart, **_**from John Mayer, from which I also drew the title.**


	2. She takes you in with her crying eyes

**A/N: Alright, just to be clear.**

**This story is M rated.**

**This chapter is one of the biggest reasons why. **

**If you don't want to read it, skip to the end, I'll summarize it very simply for you.**

Clint swam in and out of consciousness for what felt like an eternity. Sometimes he just heard noises. Sometimes it was a glimpse of his cell. Once he saw the woman of the roof. Twice, he saw other people. He didn't know them, and didn't remember what they looked like when he woke up the time after.

He thought he had been sick a few times, and he tried not to remember if he spill some vomit on himself.

He felt dirty in the worst possible ways. He had no idea what kind of drugs they gave him, had never felt anything like it, but it was certainly potent.

Finally, after three lifetimes, feeling disgusting and barely human, Clint woke up, remaining coherent for more than a few seconds.

The woman was in front of him, looking amused by him. Her little smile stretched over her teeth when she realized he was conscious.

"Ah, the Hawk rises."

Her English was accent -less, in the way of people who took lessons to get rid of their accent. She looked so harmless with her frail arms and legs and big eyes, Clint almost snickered at the absence of challenge she would represent if he attacked her. Only then did he realize he was tied to a chair, completely nude, tied in a way he knew he wouldn't be able to escape. It was the way he had been taught to bind someone with a particular propensity toward escape. Whoever the mole was, he did a darn good job.

He was starting to get a headache, all the thinking too heavy for his still drugged brain. The woman, apparently waiting for an answer, chuckled a cold laugh.

"Well, well, where are your manners, Hawkeye? When a lady addresses you, you answer."

He sneered at her.

"Go fuck yourself."

She slapped him across the cheek with the back of her hand, her bony knuckles digging into his tight muscles.

"Do try to behave, Agent Barton."

The words knocked the air out of his lungs. The only one who had heard them was Hill; it had to be a coincidence. And yet the woman was looking like she knew exactly what she said and what effect it would have. Hill. Hill was the mole. Fury's second betrayed them. Clint clenched his fists and tightened his jaw. Bitch, he knew there was a reason he never trusted her.

The woman leaned forward.

"And you will call me madam."

Clint pursed his lips in distaste.

"Madam who?"

She smiled wider, and started trailing a finger on his jaw, drawing the lines of it.

"Just Madam. You are really a beautiful pet, aren't you?"

He sneered at him, and spit his words.

"I'm not a _pet._"

Suddenly she grabbed his chin, forcing his head up to look at her. Her thin fingers were digging painfully into his cheeks.

"Do not speak to me in this tone. And call me madam."

He sneered.

"Go to fucking hell."

She slapped him again, harder this time. She started walking around him, letting her forefinger trail around to caress his chest and flank.

"You will learn respect and obedience. You will learn to serve me, to pleasure me. You will be my pet and I your master."

"Fuck you."

She grabbed his hair to bend his head backward.

"We'll have to work on that. Don't worry, we'll get there."

She chuckled again, and he felt the sting of a needle in his neck.

"Sweet dreams, Agent Barton."

And he felt back into unconsciousness.

OOOOOOOOOO

The next time he woke up, he was still tied up to the chair, and he could feel in the way his muscles and bones screamed that he hadn't been untied in between. He was alone in the room, and he took the opportunity to inspect it. Three of its walls where made of perfectly smooth metal, not offering any kind of grip for him to use. The last wall was a huge mirror he knew would be a one way glass. There was no window, and the only exit was the door. No opening mechanism was visible from this side and it fitted perfectly into the wall.

Trust him to be kidnapped by people actually competent at it, when he had the team that wouldn't go really out of their way to get him back. Especially if Hill really betrayed them and they didn't know it.

Well, if anything else, he would have ended his career with a fucking excellent shot. He closed his eyes and tried to see if he could shift enough to get a bit more comfortable. He hadn't succeeded yet when he heard a voice talking to him.

"Closing your eyes while in enemy's territory isn't the wisest course of action."

The aforementioned eyes snapped open as relief flooded through him at the familiar tone. Coulson was standing in front of him, hand loosely clasped in front of him. If Barton hadn't been tied up, he would probably have fallen on his knees to kiss his shoes. God bless that man.

"Oh thank god, Sir, thank you so much."

Coulson tilted his head to the side, absolutely unhurried. Clint was getting restless, but there was something wrong, a detail that wasn't right.

"Aren't your eyes blue, sir?"

He didn't even realize he was speaking aloud until he heard his voice. Way to appear detached and indifferent, Barton. Admit how often you stared at his eyes. But they had always been blue, and then suddenly they were brown, and Clint was still too groggy to control his mouth. Coulson blinked a few times, before smiling softly.

"Of course they are."

And yes, suddenly, they were blue.

"Sorry, sir, must have been a trick of the light."

Clint was sure now that he wasn't mistaking the calculating light in Coulson's eyes. Oh god, he's piecing it together.

"Maybe your eyes aren't as sharp as they used to be, Barton."

Barton didn't even bristle, his mind getting worried.

"Come on Sir, untie me before the nutcase comes back."

Coulson's lips curled slightly upward, apparently very amused by Clint.

"Madam? No, don't worry, she won't interrupt us."

Barton tried to tug at his restraints, knowing it was useless but trying nonetheless. His heart was racing, his mind going a thousand miles a second.

"How do you know, sir?"

"Because I asked her not to."

Everything stopped, up unto his breathing. No. No please no. It couldn't be. Not Coulson. Coulson couldn't betray them. Couldn't betray S.H.I.E.L.D. Coulson was S.H.I.E.L.D.!

Coulson was grinning at him, but his eyes were cold and calculating. Clint forced himself to speak through his constricted throat. At this point he didn't care if he sounded needy and lost.

"Sir?"

He smirked at Clint, and the archer's blood turned to ice.

"You are pathetic, you know? You, the man who bows to no one, you gave me everything, and all I had to do was to be _nice _to you. To give you attention."

He chuckled darkly, and Clint felt his heart shrivel in his chest.

"For five years I've dealt with you and your stupidity. I've endured your insubordination and your poor attempt at humor. I faked it, and you were so happy. You would have done anything I asked you, you miserable excuse for a man."

Clint whimpered, and he knew he was crying. He knew he was proving Coulson's point. But how could he help it? He knew he wasn't good enough. He knew he was about an universe away from meeting Coulson's standards. He knew Coulson didn't love him, probably didn't even like him, but he had always thought he respected him. That he, out of everyone, would see something worthwhile in Clint. He needed to believe Coulson would think twice before sending Clint to his death.

Not Coulson. Please, please he loved him, please stop doing this. This wasn't Coulson, Coulson was kind.

He couldn't look at him anymore. His chest ached, like someone a stuck a knife into it and was twisting with all his might, and Coulson was still there, watching Clint crumble as if it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen. Like he didn't care.

"You know when you first arrived, I was afraid. If someone should have discovered me, it was you. But all I had to do was give you a few gifts and you turned blind. You disgust me."

He walked around until he was behind Clint, never stopping his talk, his tone never changing from his usual calm and serene one.

"But now I get my prize. Madam accepted to give you to me, and now I will take everything I ever wanted. I will punish you for every form you made me file, every hour I had to stay behind to fix your messes, everyone of your disobediences that made me look ridiculous."

Clint heard the sound of a zipper being lowered, and his blank mind couldn't interpret what was going on. Until he felt a hot liquid splashing down his back and thighs. He gasped when he realized Coulson was pissing on him, the shock keeping him still.

"Look at you, not even strong enough to fight me."

When he was done, Clint heard the zipper being closed. Suddenly, his hands were free and he fell from the chair onto the floor. He hadn't the strength for anything else then raising his head when Coulson came back in his line of sight, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

"We will have so much fun together, Agent Barton."

And with that he left the room and the archer sprawled on the floor. Barton didn't care that he was probably still watching him in some way, he simply curled into a tight ball and cried himself to sleep, shivering from the cold and the pain.

OOOOOOOOOOO

For a few days Clint didn't see anyone. Food and water for the day were left while he slept, and he occupied the rest of the day by staring at the walls and trying to make sense of what was happening. For hours on end he looked back on every interaction he ever had with his handler, trying to find any clues that led to this, but Coulson was never anything else than the perfect agent. What was there to see that neither him nor Nat saw? How could have Coulson slipped under the radar of two of the best spies in the Agency? And yet he did.

"You seem deep in thought."

He spun around, glaring at the invader. Coulson was there once again, as pristine as he had ever been, and Clint hated himself for the way his heart jumped. It was a stupid reaction when he had no reason to believe Coulson was anything else than what he pretended, and it was completely insane when he was facing the man who pissed on him. And yet he couldn't help but hope, looking at the agent's serene face.

"You gave me a lot to think about."

Coulson smiled at him.

"Too bad you were never one for deep reasoning."

Clint felt bile rise to his mouth. So it had been real. Coulson chuckled.

"You still love me, do you?"

Clint froze, unable to breathe. Fuck, fuck, goddammit.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Coulson smiled, and took a gun looking device from his pocket.

"No, of course you don't."

He shot Clint with a dart. The archer growled as he fell to the ground, suddenly unable to move his legs or arms. He did his best to hide and control his panic, trying to understand what he had been administered. As far as he knew, he didn't recognize the symptoms. Whoever pulled the string here had access to pretty potent drugs. Fury would have an attack if he ever got to learn about it. Clint wasn't betting too much on getting out of there alive. Not if he had to go around Coulson. No matter who the man worked for, he was no less competent or dangerous.

The agent walked to him, turning him on his back with the point of his shoe. Clint glared at him from the floor, to which the agent simply answered by pressing a bit more on his chest. Coulson smiled at him, a horrible copy of his usual kind and patient one.

"Do you want to play with me?"

Clint sneered at him, and tried to will his body to move, to run. This wasn't the man he loved. He had to convince himself of that. He preferred being stupid by falling for the man Coulson pretended to be than being compromised by bending for the man he really was. His eyes never left the other man, hoping against all hope to intimidate him. The older man simply chuckled.

"You think I didn't know about your little crush? Made you so much easier to manipulate."

He slowly removed his pants, the black leather belt sliding to the ground, the metal buckle clinging against the floor. He didn't move his eyes from Clint. He slipped out of his shoes.

"How often have you imagined me doing this?"

Clint wanted nothing more than to avert his eyes, but that would have been conceding victory to the other man. It would have been admitting that the show was getting to him. As much as it _did, _Clint was certainly not going to admit it. With a bit of luck, Coulson would be satisfied with simply pissing on him again. As disgusting and defiling Clint thought it to be, it was better than any alternative he could think of at the moment. Coulson pursed his lips and kicked Clint in the thigh.

"Talk."

Clint wanted to say 'Fuck you' but he was afraid the man would take it a bit too literally. He wanted to ask him why. He wanted to beg him to let him go. He wanted to say so many things yet he chose to remain silent. Silence is gold and all that jazz. He ignored how much his chest felt empty, and yet hurt so much he could barely breathe.

"Well, it looks like we are going to have our first lesson. Obedience is mandatory at all time. Barton, talk to me."

The voice was so much like the one he used on missions, Clint felt his mouth open reflexively. He clamped his lips shut tight, swallowing down anything he could have said. Coulson sighed, and walked around him again, exiting his line of sight.

"If you continue to be this stubborn, I will have to punish you."

Clint had no illusion of what the punishment would consist of, nor did he believe there was any way he would avoid it, no matter if he talked to Coulson or not. He felt a shoe dig its way under him again, and he was flipped on his belly, and he finally allowed himself to close his eyes, now that Coulson couldn't see him. He controlled his breathing, wanting to appear as composed as possible while lying naked and paralyzed in a cell. Coulson sighed behind him.

"You will gain nothing by fighting me, you know."

One hand spread his left ass cheek apart, and Clint forced his eyelids closed even tighter. Don't think about it. He had to ignore it. There was no point in focusing on it, it wouldn't magically disappear.

"I wonder. Would it be worse if I..."

He leaned forward, covering Clint's body with his own, his hands becoming tender and caressing instead of cruel and demanding. As if they were making l- Stop it Barton. Ignore it, or it's going to drive you insane.

But Coulson wasn't going to let him zone out.

"Are you alright, darling? Don't worry, I'll take care of you."

The tone was so like the one Clint would imagine himself that he wanted to turn around and rip the agent's throat out. How dare he play with Clint like this? The archer always did his best to be discreet with his infatuation, never putting him in a tight spot or pressuring him to do anything.

"You're so gorgeous, all sprawled out like that. You have no idea how long I've wanted you. I'm going to be so good for you."

He pressed a finger inside Clint, and the archer had to bite down a gasp threatening to betray him. It had been slicked. Not much, not nearly enough to make it agreeable, but still better than nothing. More than what he had hoped.

"I could do this all day. I'd have you all day. You would like that, no?"

There were two fingers now, and Clint tried with all his might to separate himself from what was happening, but Coulson was there, saying what he had wanted him to say for four years.

Coulson was raping him, while acting like he was the boyfriend Clint dreamed of. Sue him for having trouble compartmentalizing. He felt a gentle hand on his flank.

"Still with me, darling?"

Clint wanted to send him to hell, to curse him with all his might. He also wanted to beg for Coulson to love him, to help him. And he hated himself for it. He hated Coulson for it. Hated the agent for being still calm and composed, despite fingering a drugged up man in the middle of a jail.

Suddenly the fingers disappeared and there was a blunt pressure instead. Finally Clint found the blank zone he used when he shot. The only thing that managed to pierce the void was Coulson's voice.

"So tight, love, so very tight. You're perfect, you know that? Perfect and mine. All mine."

Silence, punctuated with groans and growls. Clint couldn't even relish in the fact that Coulson lost his composure around him.

"Yes, darling. Gonna make me come."

The other man was no longer coherent, bits of phrases and single words mingling without any other purpose than to slowly break Clint's heart piece by piece.

Finally, the agent yelled and came, before slouching down on Clint's back, draping over him. He stayed there a moment to catch his breath, before biting his ear hard, the sting making Clint's hands clench. Only then he noticed he had gained back control over some of his body, like his toes and his fingers. The older man chuckled darkly at that.

"Well that was fun, wasn't it?"

Clint pursed his lips but didn't talk. Coulson sighed before pushing himself upward. Once again, he turned Clint on his back with his foot. He arched his eyebrows, and started pressing the same foot on Clint's crotch. The archer was never more grateful than at that moment to find his cock was limp. Coulson sighed.

"Not that big of a whore, are you, Barton? We'll work on that."

He leaned forward until his face was over Clint's.

"By the time I'm done with you, you will come to me crawling on your knees, begging me to touch you and take you like the bitch you are."

He smirked cruelly, and the younger man felt his blood turn to ice. Because this was Coulson, and Coulson always succeeded when he put his head to it. Nevertheless, he glared at the man.

"Good luck with that."

Coulson merely smirked at him, before pulling his pants back up, sliding into his shoes. He nodded at the man still lying on the floor.

"Until next time, Agent Barton."

He was gone again. Clint was proud of himself, he didn't cry. He didn't even want to. He felt empty. He was empty. Because one of the main things, main people, that kept him going had been wrung out of him, leaving him cold and limp. He couldn't escape, had no hope for back up, or any hope of ever seeing the only other person he loved. At least, with a bit of luck Coulson would content himself by taking him, and would leave Natasha alone.

He didn't bother to move, and simply closed his eyes, resting while he could.

OOOOOOOOO

It continued for two weeks. Every day, Coulson would come and have his way with Clint's body. However, no matter what, Clint would never accept it willingly. Every time Coulson tried not to sedate him, the archer would fight back. On one memorable and intensely gratifying instance he managed to hit the man. He paid for it in spades, but afterward, through all the aches and soreness, he cherished the throb in his knuckles.

But at the end of the day, Clint was a giant, walking ache at every time, and had been for so long he forgot how it felt to be painless. Worse, he felt like less than a man, an unruly dog that fought and protested but would have to surrender at some point.

And he lived in fear of that day. He would rather die than lose himself to the psycho. He tried to starve himself, but that only ended with Coulson force-feeding him. And fucking his mouth until he came into it.

Needless to say, he didn't try again. Somehow, having Coulson's dick in his mouth was worse than having it in his ass. And the drug used was different, so that he couldn't use his mouth. Clint hated not being able to talk. Not that he ever talked to the man, but he hated having the option taken away from him.

Clint spent the rest of the day either looking at the walls, or working out as much as he could, trying to stay in shape. He felt stupid running laps in his little cell, but it was better than nothing. He missed shooting, feeling it was the only thing that could center him at the moment. Make him feel right again, if only for a bit.

After a week, he had been allowed to wash a bit, Coulson not deeming him suitable for him in his state. He had been grateful at the moment, able to finally scrape away the different taints his captivity left on him;the blood, semen, piss and other things. Yet, the knowledge it was only to bring him back in a shape which Coulson appreciated to rape and torture him, dimmed a bit of his joy.

He was going out of his mind. His brain and heart were fighting each other all the time, and he often had panics so strong he tried to knock himself out by hitting his head on the wall. Coulson hadn't liked it, and punished Clint afterward. He still had a vivid blue bruise in the small of his back even after a week.

Sometimes, he felt himself slip and lose himself a bit. For hours after that he would sit in a corner, with his head in his hands, thinking about everything that made him who he was, from the time his father was beating the crap out of him to the last mission he completed.

Some days he almost couldn't believe the Coulson here was the same he had known. And yet, the proof was there. Coulson knew so much about him, it couldn't be someone else.

Most of the time, he couldn't bring himself to think about anything else than:

'I will meet my end with kicking and screaming.'

OOOOOOOOOO

"For someone with such a reputation for his big mouth, you have been oddly silent."

Barton, who had heard the door open-now able to, after a few days of Coulson having the jump on him-was facing away from it, expecting the older man. However, it was a woman who spoke, a voice he hadn't heard since the first day he had been there.

He slowly turned around, to see Madam standing in front of him, looking completely calm.

"And you seem a bit too calm for someone alone in the cell of a master assassin."

She smiled indulgently at him, like one of a child who was talking about becoming a super hero. It made Clint's skin rankle, the way she looked down on him. He was used to it, but it wasn't as if he would get a chance to prove her wrong.

"Hurt me, and Agent Coulson will make sure you learn why it isn't a good idea."

Barton sneered at her, and turned back toward the mirror.

"He's already doing that, in case you weren't aware. As far as I understood, doing anything more than existing isn't a good idea."

Madam smiled at him, knowing he was looking at her reflection.

"Obeying is a good idea. Obeying will free you. You aren't made to think, Hawkeye. Give in, be true to yourself."

He arched an eyebrow at her, but didn't bother to comment further. She approached him.

"We could do so much great things together. Join us. You will have everything you wished for. You will have Coulson."

He whirled around, spitting his words.

"HE IS NOT COULSON! He is not the man I want, and I'd rather die than submit to you monsters."

The woman's eyes had widened at the beginning of his sentence but had fallen back into her relaxed and confident state after.

"Then why don't you? Why don't you die?"

He sneered, leaning back on the mirror, crossing his arms.

"You mean apart from the fact you locked me in a bare room without any means to? Well, I wouldn't want to take away from you the chance to do your Big Bad Guy Monologue. Feel free to do the maniacal evil laugh at the end. Adds style."

She rolled her eyes at him.

"We are not the bad guys, Hawkeye. We wish to help people."

He rolled his eyes in return.

"Yeah, heard that one before. Sorry to be the one to break this one to you, but you haven't given me any reason to like you."

Her eyes lit up in righteous anger.

"You do not know what is good for you!"

He barked a joyless laugh.

"You _just _got that? I wasn't aware my self-destructive tendencies were that much of a secret. But you aren't the one who's gonna tell me what _is _good for me."

She glared at him, lips twitching, before she whirled around and barged out by the barely opened door. He grinned for a moment, before sighing. He was going to regret this so, so much.

OOOOOOOOO

It took longer than he thought for Coulson to come back at him for his disrespect to the one that looked like his boss. For two days, Clint was left alone with himself. He knew it was meant to make him anxious, so much that it would almost be painful; that he would almost be glad to see Coulson, so he wouldn't have to be in limbo anymore.

A lesser man would have fallen for it. A lesser man wouldn't have known and recognized the tactic for what it was, and wouldn't have trained himself over the years in patience. So when Coulson finally crossed the doorway, Clint simply looked up from where he was lying down on the floor, and smirked at him.

"Took you long enough."

Coulson pursed his lips in distaste at him, looking thoroughly disgusted.

"I had to take time to decide which punishment would be appropriate. It's about time you learn to hold your tongue."

Clint snickered.

"Isn't that what you've tried to do for the past two weeks?"

Coulson's face changed, and suddenly he had his smooth expression and kind eyes back.

"Clint, please, do this for me."

Rage burst through him, and he jumped to his feet and tackled him to the wall aiming a punch for his throat. Coulson neatly side stepped the hit, and stuck the needle into Clint's neck. The archer was so used to it he barely felt it. He fell to the floor. He tried to move his mouth, and was relieved to see he could still talk. Than he noticed the bag Coulson brought with him in the room. He felt himself pale when he understood he was unpacking knives.

He always hated knives, ever since his father used one on him a week before he died. The Swordsman was rather fond of them as well, and his adolescence had been marred with cuts and slashes. And somehow, he never got used to it. Knives were the worst torture for him.

He was honestly surprised it had taken so long for Coulson to break them out. The older man turned toward him, eyes cold and hard.

"Tonight, you will beg, little bird."

He groaned at the first cut, rib to rib on his belly. He whimpered at the second, on his shoulder. He screamed at the third, which went from his collarbone to the base of his cock.

He would have thrashed if he could, and he knew he was crying, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He wanted to get out of here. He would kill Coulson. He would kill him with his own teeth. He would rip him apart.

They both heard a loud noise in the hallway, and Coulson paused just long enough for Clint to see him frown for a second. However he came back at Clint with a vengeance and the archer bellowed in pain.

Suddenly there was gunfire and an explosion. The door flew open, and another gunshot sounded. Clint opened his eyes just in time to see the ball penetrate Coulson's head between his two eyes, opened wide. He saw the body slowly falling back, as limp as Clint's last victim had been. The body become strangely blurry, and shifted. By the time it was on the floor, Clint was staring at Madam's lifeless body. Something was wrong, but he couldn't think through the pain. He kept zoning out, and had to focus himself.

"Barton! Barton! Clint!"

Clint's heart flew back to his throat. No, it couldn't be. Coulson couldn't be alive. He just died, Clint saw it. Nevertheless, Coulson's face came into his view. Panic and worry was written all over his face, dark circles traced deep under his eyes, face pale and drawn. It was so different from the previous one, from the Coulson that just died, Clint's breath was stolen away. This was Coulson; this was Phil.

Coulson raped him. Coulson tortured him. Coulson pissed on him. Before Clint knew it, his brain flew out of control, panic took control, and he yelled out.

"Get away from me! Get away! Help! Don't touch me you fucking psycho!"

Coulson startled back as if he'd been scalded, hurt and fright marring his face. A part of Clint wanted to reach for him and curl around him, to have him tell it wasn't real it was all a dream.

But he couldn't; Coulson couldn't be trusted. Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get away from Coulson. It hurt, pushing him away. He had to. Coulson hurt him.

Not this Coulson. This was _Phil._

Coulson betrayed him. He had to get away. He couldn't breathe. Phil's eyes widened. His hands fret about a foot over Clint's body, not daring to touch him. Clint blessed him, for not being-Coulson.

Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to push him away. He tried to. But he couldn't move. He had to get away. He had to-

He felt the familiar prick on his arm, and he welcomed the darkness for the first time since he got there. Just as he slipped away, he heard a tired, sad, and soft voice.

"I'm sorry, Clint.''

**A/N:**

**Summary: All in all, Clint has been tortured by a shape shifter acting as Coulson, who also raped him. At the end, he is rescued by S.H.I.E.L.D.**

**I know, I'm an awful human being. I know. Just to be clear, it **_**wasn't **_**the real Coulson. The real Coulson would never do that.**


	3. The waking up is the hardest part

When Clint woke up again, cursing the haze of drugs, he welcomed the heavy feeling of depressants he was used to, unlike the ones he experimented with during his two weeks in hell. He also wanted to cry out in joy at the feel of a mattress under him, despite it being the hard one that could only be found in the S.H.I.E.L.D. medical bay. He felt cleaner than he had in forever, and the feel of clean sheets and a medical gown was heavenly in a way he would never have thought it could be.

He turned his head and rubbed his cheek against the pillow, sighing happily. He could stay here forever, he really could.

No he couldn't; he would get restless and drive the staff batshit insane after three days, but hush. He would enjoy the moment. It happened so rarely.

After a while, he decided to do a rundown of his injuries. Since he was probably doped to the eyeballs, he would have to do it hands-on, without opening his eyes, needing to simply feel at the moment.

If it was just a dream, he wasn't ready to wake up yet. He didn't think he would ever be, but certainly not now. He needed his illusions a while longer. He tried to straighten up to pat his legs, but there was suddenly an hand on the side of his chest, and even through the drugs Clint knew it carefully avoided any of his injuries.

"Stay still. You'll tear up your stitches."

Clint eyes flew open, and he couldn't breathe anymore. Phil was sitting in the chair beside his bed, eyes concerned and caring. Clint was trembling, and he couldn't speak. He couldn't speak. He couldn't. He couldn't.

Oh my god, he couldn't breathe. Breathe. He needed to breathe. He felt weaker and weaker, panic flooding through his veins. Phil went a bit paler, and leaned forward.

"Barton? Barton what's happening?"

Clint shook his head, and crept away, sliding in the bed, away from Coulson. The agent was clearly panicking as well at the moment, his face smooth and expressionless but his eyes darting around to try and understand what was happening. Like why his agent was panicking.

"Barton? Barton, talk to me, please."

The light pleading edge in the other man's voice helped a bit, and Clint's mouth seemed to remember how to work. He wanted to wince at how desperate his voice sounded, how scared and little it was.

"What are you doing here?"

Coulson frowned, completely lost. If there was anything he hated, it was not understanding something. Clint knew he had thrown him in a loop a few times, but it had never been so obvious in the past, never conveyed by more than an arched eyebrow and a touch of exasperation in the eyes. At the moment, he was losing control of his emotions, something Clint had never witnessed yet.

And Clint didn't feel better. His brain wasn't working right. Something in his head must be wrong. Coulson narrowed his eyes at him.

"Barton? Clint?"

Clint whimpered, and pushed himself farther. Coulson never called him before, before he was taken. He had back then, when he wanted to hurt him.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get away. _

But in his haste, he didn't notice he had pushed himself over the edge of the bed. Coulson reacted with startling speed, grabbing his arm and dragging him back onto the bed. It brought them chest to chest over the bed, Coulson's face inches away from his. Clint didn't think. Not that he could. His brain completely whited out. He was simply reacting. And his instincts at the moment were screaming.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get away from Coulson. _

He punched the other man in the belly. He was so weak from the drug it couldn't have hurt that much, if at all, but Coulson automatically let him go, pulling back, looking surprised.

"Barton? What's going on?"

Clint screamed.

"What are you doing here?"

Coulson opened his mouth a few times, searching for the right thing to say. Finally he spoke, voice hesitant.

"I'm always here when you wake up, agent. Barton, talk to me."

The order, so much like the other Coulson's ones, in a tentative way to appear in control was the straw that broke the camel's back. He bellowed.

"Get out!"

Coulson frowned, and leaned back.

"Barton, keep calm."

"GET OUT!"

He scooted back in the back, away from the other man. Coulson reached for him, to keep him from tumbling over the edge again. Clint screamed, slapping the Agent's hand away.

"Get away from me you fucking psycho!"

Clint couldn't control his mouth, no matter that a part of him hated the look of utter pain on the other man's face. Hating that he was the one to put it there.

"Barton, you'll hurt yourself!"

The archer tried to punch the older man. Why was he still there? Why couldn't he understand? Why couldn't he just leave Clint alone? Alone, he would be safe. Please, please just go.

His punch missed Coulson by a solid foot, and when that option failed, Clint patted for something to use, a weapon. His hand fell on something heavy. The flower vase the nurses insisted on putting in every room in an effort to put some life into them. Coulson's eyes jumped to it, and he slowly leaned back, and raised his hands.

"Barton, please calm down. There are other ways-"

Clint growled the words, low and slow, to be sure he was understood.

"Get. Away. From. Me."

Coulson opened his mouth again, obviously not moving from his chair. Clint didn't leave him time, throwing the vase as hard as he could. It only missed the agent's head because he jumped to the side.

"GET OUT!" Clint bellowed.

Phil walked to the door, never turning away from him. Sadness, hurt, and concern were etched all over his face, completely open for once in his life.

"I'm so sorry about what happened, Barton."

Now that he was gone, Clint could do nothing but curl in on himself and cry. Now that Coulson was out of the room, his brain seemed to get itself back on track, at least a bit. And fuck it all, being able to think had never been of so little comfort.

_Coulson hurt him._

Not that Coulson. The other one. The one that died. Not the same man. Not the same-

_Coulson betrayed him. He had trusted him._

It wasn't Coulson. It was someone else. An illusion. You just threw the real Coulson out of your room.

_He had to get away from Coulson._

No! Coulson knew him, the real Coulson would help him, heal him. The real Coulson he just hurt, the one he threw a fucking flower vase at. He could have split his skull open. Could have blinded him.

_Coulson hurt him._

He hurt Coulson, attacked him when he tried to help him.

_Coulson betrayed him._

He betrayed Coulson. He attacked him. He hit him. Coulson trusted him to have his back and he hurt him.

_Had to get away from Coulson._

Coulson must hate him. He had always put up with him before, but even he couldn't cope with an even more screwed up Clint Barton. He would let him go. Clint would be alone, again.

_Good. Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. Had to get away from Coulson._

NO! Coulson was good! Coulson was kind, and he was here with Clint in medical because he knew the archer hated the staff there. He wanted to help.

_The other Coulson said that too. Maybe there is no other Coulson. Maybe it was always the same one._

No. The other one had tried to fake Coulson's concern, but it was never the same.

_He believed him, though._

He was an idiot. Everyone knew that. But he needed Coulson.

_He'll torture you again._

HE LOVED HIM!

_HE RAPED YOU!_

Clint had thrashed so much he fell down off the bed, clutching his head in his hands. But he didn't notice, just as he didn't notice that he was screaming at the top of his lungs, trying to drown the noise of his own thoughts. He had to stop. He was going mad. He had to stop.

He didn't notice the people that barged into his room to hold him down and sedate him. He certainly didn't notice Phil standing in the doorway, looking as if was about to crumble, pale and holding himself on the doorway.

The only thing he did notice was how his heart and brain were tearing each other up, trying to win an argument Clint was afraid to see resolved.

What if he decided Phil couldn't be trusted, and left?

_What if he decided he could be, and was wrong?_

He welcomed the blackness as the friend it was becoming.

OOOOOOOO

The next time he awoke, the first thing he noticed was that he was strapped to the bed. He tested his restraints weakly, and was pretty sure he could escape them in thirty seconds tops, even drugged as he was. Obviously, they weren't there to keep him prisoner. He did wonder why they were there at all though, if they weren't trying to keep him still. He cursed once again at his inability to think properly. He wished he could just fall asleep, and be out long enough that everything that was wrong in his head would set itself right, and he could go on with his life.

Then again, he didn't remember a time when his head hadn't been fucked up, so it was probably a bit too much to ask of whatever higher power was out there.

Excluding the restraints, everything seemed to be the same as last time, as far as he could tell with his eyes closed. He wasn't sure he wanted to open them, fearing what would be waiting for him in the room. Last time he had been with Coulson; maybe now it would be Madam. He was pretty sure he had seen her dead body, but as he had said, he didn't trust his head at the moment.

But there was no use in waiting, in being a coward. He opened his eyes at the ceiling, blinking a couple of time at the harshness of the lighting in the medical bay. Seriously, you'd think they'd find something gentler for their patient's eyes. Even Bid Badass S.H.I.E.L.D. agents could use a little pampering sometimes, especially after a hard mission.

He stared at the ceiling for a long time before he realized he had enough energy to move a bit. He sighed, and patted for the bed control, moving the bed up a bit, so that he was more or less seated. He froze when he finally noticed the other person in the room.

Maria Hill was staring at him impassively. Her face had the look of one that was recovering from several bruises, skin nearly healed back to normal, but not yet. Clint briefly wondered if it was from the mission they had went on together, or if she went elsewhere afterward.

They looked at each other for a long time, and Clint was starting to get uneasy. Hill's eyes conveyed none of their usual disdain for him, which was as close to happiness and concern he would get from her. Finally she spoke, voice low, measured, and non-threatening.

"Can I talk?"

Clint frowned. She never asked that kind of question to him before. Always acted towards him like the senior agent she was, expecting discipline from those under her. But then, with his latest outburst toward Coulson-thinking about it brought a puff of panic in his throat-they must all be wary of him. Coulson was the one person in here they were all convinced he would never lash out to, the only one safe from the loose cannon Clint was. He looked at Hill for a long time, before nodding tersely. She sighed, and leaned forward.

"First of all I am sorry I hadn't been able to cover you better. You should never have been taken."

Strangely, in all the time he had been held captive, he had never blamed Hill, once he knew she was the traitor. He had cursed Coulson all the way into his third generation of descendants. Never Hill. However, he couldn't help but retort.

"You should have let me go and check."

His voice cracked, from disuse and a dry throat. Hill got to her feet and approached, with the care one would bestow on an injured wild animal. Clint couldn't help but think that was exactly was he was. When she seemed pretty sure he wasn't going to lash out, she brought a straw to his lips. He drank the water gingerly, relishing in the cold sensation. He felt a little bit more alive, and his throat felt a little less like it was filled by wool. When he was done, he nodded, and Hill continued speaking, standing beside his bed.

"Probably. We found the mole, a young analyst that was at the right place at the right time to hear about our mission. He relayed the info to his contact, along with several other things."

Her gaze stopped briefly to the bandage on his shoulder, covering one of his many cuts. So the bastards told them about the knives.

"Why? Why me?"

Hill sighed.

"We aren't sure yet. All we know is that Madam had been implied in a big organization a few years back, one that Agent Coulson helped bring down."

She leaned forward, serious and business like.

"Did they ask you anything, Barton? Any little question?"

Clint sighed and shook his head. No they didn't. It would have been easier if they did. He was trained to withstand interrogations. Hill pursed her lips and looked away. The archer was getting frustrated. He wasn't nearly as good at reading Hill as he was at reading Coulson.

On second thought, no more thinking about trying to read Coulson. He really didn't want to have another nervous meltdown in front of Hill. He forced words through his chapped throat.

"What does that mean?"

Hill sighed, and looked back at him.

"We were thinking they were going against S.H.I.E.L.D. as a whole. But it doesn't fit."

Clint couldn't see where this was going, and he really was past trying to hide his confusion to play tough. Any chance of playing tough died when he freaked out in the middle of medical. He would hear about it for the rest of his life.

"So?"

Hill pinched her lips and glared at the feet of the bed, effectively conveying her anger, while stating it wasn't directed at Clint. Wasn't it a day for first times? Hill was being considerate around him. If he wasn't just going half out of his mind, he would be celebrating the occurrence. As things were, he wasn't sure if it comforted him or made him uneasy by highlighting just how weird things were. He didn't need to be reminded, thank you very much.

"So it means they are targeting agent Coulson personally. It's not something me, or Director Fury are comfortable with."

Clint felt his stomach drop. Coulson was in danger. Someone was targeting Coulson. Then he frowned. What was the matter, if S.H.I.E.L.D. was aware?

"Can't you protect him?"

Hill glared at him, for even insinuating the Division wasn't looking out for it's people. It did. Everyone hired at S.H.I.E.L.D. was far too valuable to be abandoned without quite a struggle.

"We can and we are. But there is very little we can do against an attack that has already taken place and effect."

Clint tensed. Coulson had been attacked? How hadn't he heard about it sooner? Why didn't anyone tell him about it? He needed to know about these things! He needed to know it so he could make the bastards pay.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. Had to get away from Coulson._

Oh shut the Hell up. If someone hurt Coulson, he would be returning it to them tenfold.

"What? How? When?"

Maria sighed, and looked at him with something in her eyes a bit too akin to pity for Clint to be comfortable with it.

"You."

Clint felt all his muscles lock in place. No. He didn't hit him that hard. The vase missed. Oh my god. He did something he didn't remember. But someone would have told him, right. He would be in containment, not merely restrained in medical. He was panting.

"What do you mean? I didn't- The vase didn't hit-he barely felt the punches."

Hill sighed, and went to sit down in the chair again, rubbing her face with both hands. This was the least composed Clint had ever seen her.

"Not that way. Coulson is perfectly fine, physically."

Clint braced himself for the blow he knew was coming.

"But?"

Hill looked at him for a long time.

"Do you ever think about how you would feel if it was the contrary? To know Coulson had been captured, torture, abused, and raped for two weeks because someone was trying to get back at you? To know they used your image to do so? To see him come back battered and suffering?"

She looked away, unable to withstand his unwavering eyes anymore.

"To have them terrified by you. To see that the trust you've spent years building has disappeared, perhaps forever? To see a friend destroyed, because of you?"

Clint couldn't breathe anymore. Flashes were running through his head. Coulson cut into ribbons, lying in a puddle of blood. Coulson being raped by a horrible facsimile of him. Seeing his reflection taking everything he ever wanted by force, when Clint would die before pecking Coulson on the cheek without his permission. Coulson hitting him, and pushing him away, being terrified by him.

Clint shook his head. His hands were killing him from where he was fighting against the straps to try and curl in on himself. His voice was small and weak.

"It's not the same thing."

Hill glared at him, knuckles white from how tightly they were clenched.

"He cares about you, more than anyone else, otherwise they wouldn't have chosen you. It would have been easier to take me."

Clint shook his head, and tried once more to cross his arms over his chest. He whimpered, and glared at Hill.

"Untie me."

Her nostrils flared, but she seemed conflicted, unsure of how to react.

"No. I'm sorry."

Clint fought against the restraints, going nowhere, unable to remember how he could get rid of them. His throat was getting slowly tighter and tighter. His voice was scared.

"Untie me."

"I'm sorry, Barton."

He looked up, eyes pleading.

"Please, ma'am."

Hill faltered. It was the first time he ever volunteered the title, and he could see her hesitating. But Hill would always follow her orders, no matter how much she disapproved.

"The fact that you can't escape by yourself is the exact reason why we are restraining you. I'm sorry."

Clint looked around, a bit pacified by Hill's softer tones. He was on friendly ground. He had to get a grip over himself. He looked at himself, trying to inventory his injuries. Somehow the bandages appeared to cover more of his body.

"What happened?"

Hill pursed her lips again.

"You managed to tear open nearly all your stitches with your little stunt. You slept for almost two days."

He nodded, and looked back at her.

"How bad am I?"

She leaned back, apparently relieved he chose to leave Coulson's subject alone. As competent as she was, Hill wasn't very comfortable with dealing with other people's dramas.

"You mean except the unnecessarily reopened cuts over all your body? Blood loss, malnutrition, and dehydration, but that was mostly taken care of. There was deep bruising over your hips and thighs, and your anus will be tender for a while. There were no other important damages, and your hands are intact, which confirmed our hypothesis that this hit wasn't targeting you directly."

Clint appreciated the clinical tone, and the absence of sickly sympathetic tones Doctors often used, when there was no way they could ever understand. Hill did, to a certain extent. Clint nodded, and remained silent, staring at the ceiling. He couldn't think of anything else to say. Hill wasn't one to do or encourage small talk.

After a while, the agent rose to her feet, and slowly walked to the door. Just when she was about to leave, Clint came to a decision.

"I don't want to hurt him."

He didn't turn his head, but from the corner of his eyes he saw her stop, hand on the handle.

"Then don't. Don't let them win. Go back to see Coulson. Trust him. Go back to where you were before."

Clint swallowed, and ignored the way his eyes misted.

"What if I can't? What if I'm really fucked? What if I can't trust him again?"

She sighed and turned her head just enough to see him, her expression sad.

"Then they will have succeeded, and you will hurt Coulson. It won't be your fault, and no one could have expected otherwise. You would have done what everybody thought you would. I just never knew you to stop at simply 'meets expectations'. Will you really start now? Start by hurting Coulson?."

Clint closed his eyes. He would hurt Coulson. He would hurt the man he loved. He would do the only thing he always swore he would never do. Hell, he already did it.

"It wasn't his fault, Barton. You know it. You saw the shape shifter. You saw her die. Remember that. It wasn't your fault either. It's normal to be shaken. He doesn't blame you. He hadn't slept for three days after you were taken, and only did when me and Sitwell forced him. He hasn't gone home for three weeks. He barely eats, rests, or does anything that doesn't help you. And I know you would be as bad if you were in his shoes. Don't throw him out in the trash."

She left for real this time, and left Clint with his own thoughts. He was proud of himself. He didn't cry. Crying wouldn't help. He looked at the ceiling until he fell asleep, naturally for once.

OOOOOOOO

He stayed in medical three more days, but as Hill said, there wasn't much wrong with him. The cuts were healing nicely, and would simply need time, and most of his bruises were gone or seriously faded. They insisted to keep him there, but he knew it was to keep him from running around the HQ, at least until he had seen the shrink to assess his mental stability.

He knew the only thing that was in any danger around him was Coulson, and Clint refused to ever again hurt him, if he could help it. He would never hit him, he would jump down the building, shoot himself with his own arrows before it came to that.

So Clint didn't see any problem with checking himself out. He knew his door was locked, having noticed the faint click when someone got into the room. Not that he would have used it, but the air vents necessitated him to heal a bit before he could drag himself up to exit the room.

After a few minutes, he arrived at a familiar crossing. He knew if he went to the right, he would end up over Coulson's office. And because the agent always noticed him there, he would be called on it, and he would get down and talk. They would chat, explain themselves, laugh and everything would be like before.

Except...

Except Clint panicked at the thought of being alone in a room with Coulson.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get away from Coulson._

He couldn't go there. He would end up freaking out, and Coulson would feel even worse because of it. He couldn't hurt Coulson. He had to stay away.

Feeling as if someone was wrenching his heart out of his chest, Clint continued forward, following another familiar path, toward the gym. The old one, the one that remained only because a few old fashioned agents were nostalgic. Clint liked it because it offered a lot of perches, and no one ever came to look for him there. Except Coulson and Nat. But Tasha was on the other side of the planet, and Coulson would certainly not search for him at the moment.

He slid down to the ground, glad to be alone and slowly walked to a climbing rope. He found a comfortable rafter, away from sight, in a dark corner.

And he curled on itself, arms crossed over his chest. He wanted Coulson. He wanted to go to him, and tell him he didn't blame him.

It wasn't his fault. There were some suckers that deserved to die. And sometimes they were just a bit too hard to kill and came back to bite you on the ass. It happened to Clint more times than he could count.

It just figured Phil would get the enemies that could actually think, and realize there are worst things in life than torture on oneself

Clint closed his eyes, trying to clear his head, but automatically he thought of Phil being raped, silent because he was the Agent Coulson, and he would never break. He would only get a pleading glint in his eyes, something only the true Clint would see.

Clint's eyes popped open. He would endure ten thousand times worse if it meant Coulson wouldn't have to.

Hill was right. Coulson might not like him as more than a friend, but it didn't matter. Clint would go before Natasha as well, and despite everyone's belief, he wasn't in love with her, and they had never slept together. They completed each other in every way, but were too much like each other for any kind of romantic relationship to work. There was too much past dragging behind the both of them.

But not behind Coulson.

And he was hurting Coulson. He clutched his sides tighter.

_Coulson hurt him; it was only fair he suffered as well._

It wasn't the same. It was the shape shifter. He saw her die. He saw her brain and blood on the floor. Coulson would never hurt him.

_Coulson betrayed him._

No. Coulson was the most loyal man he knew. He was his friend.

_He had to get away from Coulson._

Coulson thought he hated him. Coulson was in pain because of him. He had to do something. He had to go to him.

_NO! Coulson hurt him! Coulson betrayed him! He had to stay away from him._

Clint sighed softly, and bent his knees to rest his forehead on them, never letting his sides go.

When would he stop fighting himself? He just wanted to be free. Why couldn't he just have a normal brain?

Why couldn't just he be normal? If he was normal, he would have a family, parents, maybe a sister and a dog. He would have a standard job, with a good salary and a stable apartment.

Normal lives were so much simpler. Why couldn't have a simple existence.

He sighed, and closed his eyes.

Because if he had a normal life, he would never have met Natasha.

He would have never met Coulson.

He would have to do with this life for the moment. And he would go to Coulson. Soon. Once he put his brain back into almost working order.

It couldn't take that long, right?

**A/N: I apologize for everyone who was hoping Coulson would be there to bring Clint back to health, but yeah, obviously, that's not happening anytime soon. **


	4. You roll outta bed and down on your knee

Clint wandered like a zombie through the premises for a week. The only thing he really was conscious of was that he avoided Coulson. No matter what. No matter how tired he was, no matter how long it had been since he ate, he always managed to disappear just before Coulson arrived. He saw Hill looking at him expectantly. Every time, he just clenched his jaw and looked away. There was nothing in him that she would like to see.

Every night he went to sleep thinking he would do it soon.

Every day he tried to go and see Coulson. One time he even went as far as the agent's office door. But he couldn't. His head wouldn't let him. He had crumbled in front of the door, and Sitwell found him before Coulson could get back from his meeting. Clint was forever thankful to him.

He needed Coulson so bad it hurt sometimes. Often he hoped the agent would come to see him. No matter how he would freak out. He needed it. But he wasn't selfish enough to take what he wanted if it hurt Coulson in return.

So he settled for the next best thing; Stalking him. He crawled through the vents, seeking resting places where even Coulson wouldn't suspect him. Where he could see and listen, get his quotidian dose of Coulson.

Once, he found a quiet corner on top of the reunion room where he knew Coulson had another meeting-hacking could get him a long way. It was nothing big, just a briefing for a standard mission. Coulson wouldn't even have been there if it hadn't taken place in a region where he had a previous mission. Sitwell was the agent in charge, and Clint over heard them.

Phil was looking at him with a piercing look.

"Any news from Barton?"

Sitwell threw a questioning look at him, rifling through his files. Phil stayed unmoving, expecting an answer from his subordinate.

"Shouldn't you be telling me, sir?"

Phil's jaw tensed a fraction, the clue Clint knew to mean he was stifling a sigh. And he wanted to scream that yes, Coulson should be the one to know. Coulson always knew everything about Clint, except perhaps the fact his agent loved him. Why was everything so weird, so wrong lately?

"Don't be daft, agent. I know you have encountered Barton a few days back."

Sitwell hadn't the same reserves as Coulson and sighed audibly, before straightening and looking Coulson in the eye.

"Permission to talk freely, sir?"

Coulson cocked his head to the side, intrigued.

"Granted, agent."

Sitwell looked away from Coulson, lips pinched, eyes hard.

"I don't think sending Hill to Barton was a good idea. She shouldn't have told him everything we knew."

Coulson crossed his arms over his chest, and Clint could imagine fairly well the cocked eyebrow, despite the agent's back being to him.

"Barton would have driven himself crazy trying to understand."

Sitwell's eyes snapped to Coulson, displeased and concerned.

"He's already doing that, sir. You know I've found him in front of your office." Coulson gave a curt nod, "Well, he was muttering to himself. He was arguing with himself. One part was afraid of you, scared of being with you, and honestly, I don't think we could find someone to blame him for it, sir. But he also was trying to force himself to go and see you, because _Hill _told him he was causing you pain. He hates himself because of it. And I don't think Barton can cope with a lot more self-hatred before it ends him."

Coulson's fists were clenched.

"I don't blame him. I'm worried for him. He isn't paining me because he can't see _me. _He's paining me because he's suffering."

Sitwell looked at Coulson for a long time, before going to open the door for the agents waiting on the other side.

"Maybe you should tell him that."

Clint could _feel _the strength of Coulson's glare, but to Sitwell's honor, he didn't flinch, and held steady. The man deserved a promotion.

"You know I can't."

Sitwell shrugged, and he kept silent while a few juniors entered, throwing shifty looks at Coulson.

"Then find a way to let him know. I have faith in you, Agent Coulson."

Clint didn't stay for Coulson's answer; he didn't need to. Coulson was worried about him. Coulson reduced himself to asking _Sitwell _about him. Not that Clint didn't like Sitwell, but Coulson preferred to learn these things by himself. Coulson didn't hate him. Coulson was in pain because of him, nonetheless. He had to get better, so Coulson wouldn't suffer anymore.

Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to stay a-

SHUT UP! He didn't want to. He wanted to be with Coulson. He wanted to curl up on Coulson's couch and snark. He had to get better. He had to be better.

If he succeeded in making his brain work right again, he would tell Coulson. He would tell Coulson why it hurt him so much that he thought the older man raped him. He would tell Coulson, because it wasn't fair that the agent didn't understand. It wasn't fair that someone used him to hurt the other.

It wasn't fair he had been hurt because of one of Coulson's screw ups.

He preferred to get hurt than to see Coulson get hurt.

That's what he said about Barney before his brother betrayed him.

He whimpered at the thought of his brother, and was glad he had the presence of mind to get away from the conference room. Coulson would have heard him. He didn't want Coulson to hear him. It was better for the agent to suspect he was that bad than to know it.

He went to the range and shot until dinner time, mindless of the sting of various not-quite-healed cuts peppered over his body. He could deal with that later.

OOOOOOOO

A few days later, he was dozing off over the water cooler, half listening to the various office gossips, when he heard his name. His eyes popped open, and he spied the three agents chatting. A brunette woman he didn't recognize, another one he was pretty sure was at the meeting where he overheard Coulson and Sitwell, and a man he recalled as being a bragging big mouth. He had promised Coulson he would try and shut him up, just before he left with Hill. For some reason he never got around to do it.

The woman of the meeting was talking.

"Have you heard about Barton? They say he's pretty shaken ever since he was kidnapped."

The other woman pursed her lips, swallowing her coffee before answering.

"Shaken? He attacked Coulson! That man was a freak before; now he's a psycho. They shouldn't leave him free to run around, he'll end up killing someone."

The first woman frowned at the brown haired one, and talked curtly, insulted on Clint's behalf.

"Barton is a good agent that has never given us any reason to doubt his loyalty. Just because he dropped water bombs on you one time isn't a reason for S.H.I.E.L.D. to write him off."

The brown-haired woman rolled her eyes and huffed indignantly.

"Loyalty? Please. Everyone knows he was only ever loyal to Coulson. He had no problem sending Hill and Fury to Hell. And now he doesn't answer to Coulson anymore. We should throw him in containment before it's too late."

The first woman, clearly disgusted by the other one, hissed.

"You are repulsive; if S.H.I.E.L.D. fired everyone that had a rough patch, it'd be deserted. We have to stick together."

"No all of us are master assassins with shaky ethics to begin with."

"Barton was recruited because he was the best, and he continues to be. He'll come back to full form, and you'll eat your words."

"Ha! What'd be the point of him coming back if he isn't able to work with anyone anymore? Coulson was the only one to put up with his bullshit. Who will now? You?"

"I would if it would help. But Barton and Coulson will continue to work together."

The man, who had so far been silent and reserved, snickered into his coffee cup, dragging the inquiring eyes of the two women to him.

"Barton'll have to get laid first."

The two women arched an eyebrow in perfect synchronicity. The man chuckled and raised his hands.

"Come on, I can't be the only one to think Barton being traumatized isn't the answer!"

He was answered by their blank looks, and his shoulders sagged. He sighed, and pointed toward the brown haired woman.

"Look, you've said so yourself, Barton's always been Coulson's bitch. He would have done anything for the man and all that. Remember the guy in HR that had slandered Coulson on the internet? Still in therapy they said. Well _I _say that when he was captured, he actually realized he liked Coulson using him. And now he's back, and Coulson won't do the same and he's having trouble dealing with the horniness."

The woman was red, seething.

"What the fucking hell! He was raped! No one enjoys being _raped!_"

The man rolled his eyes and sipped his coffee calmly, leaving her to her ranting.

"How would you know? Personal experience?" That shut her up quickly. "We all know Barton's fucked up. What's a little more?"

The brunette woman, having apparently decided that Barton couldn't be that mad, came to help the other one out.

"He was being cut open when the rescue team arrived."

The man shrugged, spreading his arms open.

"Some people like that."

The meeting woman was sneering at him, paper cup crushed in her fist, coffee Clint hoped had the time to cool dripping down her white skin.

"You're disgusting."

He snickered again, supremely unconcerned, like they were simply discussing the weather, or something approaching.

"Calling them as I see them. Mark my words, Barton simply needs to find someone to beat him a bit and make him suck his dick, and he'll be back to normal. It's not like it'd be hard to find someone more agreeable to look at than Coulson. He's like the definition of plain."

Clint wanted to jump down and beat the bastard into to a pulp. How dare he call him Coulson's bitch? How dare he insinuate he was sick enough to enjoy being stripped of all control and taken by force?

How dare he say Coulson was plain? That Coulson was replaceable?

Clint wasn't sure exactly how he kept himself from going to the dumbass, but he suspected it had something to do with being frozen. By the thought of submitting to anyone. Of _letting _anyone beat him up.

He didn't remember making his way back to his quarters either. He could remember curling up over the covers of his narrow bed, staring at the white wall in front of him, hoping he could find some answers written on it.

Despite everything, maybe the bastard had gotten a few things right. Maybe having sex would help. Maybe if he slept with someone he trusted, and nothing bad happened, maybe he would be less scared.

Maybe it could make Coulson's presence bearable.

Obviously Coulson himself wasn't an option, but he had always been considered one of the sexiest men in the agency; he was bound to find someone willing to spend the night with him. Maybe the woman who defended him earlier. She'd probably do it if he said it would help his recovery.

Anyway, he really needed the release. He hadn't come ever since the mission. There was no way in well he ever was going to get anywhere while kidnapped, and every time he tried to jerk off since, the only image he could conjure up to turn himself on was Phil, and Phil sounded a bit too much like the Other Coulson to be anything else than a major turn off.

But maybe, maybe with a woman, it would be okay.

Maybe. He had never been particularly attracted to women before, just a few, but with everything that was fucked up with him at the moment, he wouldn't be surprised if they managed to screw up that too.

No matter how much he would hate himself, and he knew he would, he would try if it meant he could get better. He already felt the tendrils of shame curling in his gut, at the idea of using someone for his benefits. Of betraying Coulson. Or at the very least his feelings for the man.

But getting better meant seeing Coulson. It meant Coulson would stop worrying for him or at the very least worry less. It would mean Coulson wouldn't be in pain because of him. It meant Madam and whoever she worked with, had failed.

Despite whatever Sitwell said, he could handle a bit more self-hatred. For Coulson.

He never thought being his old pathetically smitten self would ever come as a comfort to him.

OOOOOOOOO

The same day, he was back in his quarters just after six, after an afternoon of intense working out. He was once again staring at the ceiling, wondering if he could play the pity angle to get the permission to paint his quarters. It would alleviate his boredom, if only for a while. He had a collection of books and movies stashed in the corner, but he couldn't bring himself to read or watch them. Most of them were linked to Coulson in some way, and at the moment he was trying to keep his mind off the agent.

So he occupied himself by going through the female portion of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s staff he knew, trying to select one he would approach with his plan. He had dismissed the meeting woman pretty early, accepting the obvious, that he wasn't attracted to her and would never be.

At the point he had reached, the only potential candidate was Hill. Her competence and hard as nails demeanor definitely worked for him. And he would be able to guilt her into it. Yeah, he knew, he was a _horrible _pathetic man. However, he felt the agent would _understand. _He knew after mission sex wasn't that rare an occurrence, not that he had ever indulged, and that Hill probably provided for her agents on more than one occasion. He knew she would understand why he needed that.

The only problem was that he didn't trust Hill. Not completely. He wasn't sure he would trust her enough to do this, to make himself vulnerable in front of her.

Otherwise, he either wasn't attracted-he was relieved to find his preferences were still the same-or he didn't trust them. Most of them wouldn't understand him. Or were scared of him. Or disgusted by him.

Anyway, not the kind of things that encourage physical passion. Or even physical intimacy. He sighed, and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. God, what a mess everything was.

"I trained you better than that."

He jumped a mile high, and fell on his feet ready to fight beside his bed. Natasha was sitting on his desk, face blank like it usually was, but eyes easily readable for anyone who knew her. She was worried, and concerned and angry, and a thousand things that flew across her pupils too fast for him to catch them all. He relaxed and let himself fall on his behind to sit with his back to the bed. Natasha leaned forward.

She was still in her field gear, clearly just back from whatever mission she had been sent on. He could see a few cuts just cleaned on her forehead and neck. Knowing Natasha, that would probably be the extent of her injuries. How she always managed to come back mainly unscathed when she worked in the field while he, who is supposed to stay away from the troubles, would look like a punching bag, was a constant mystery to him.

She stared without blinking for a long while, before sighing.

"Fury just told me."

Clint's eyes popped open, and he felt his jaw drop. Well, that explained the anger in her eyes.

"Fury didn't tell you? Didn't call you? And he's still alive?"

Natasha's lips pursed, and despite himself Clint felt proud to have brought an expression to her face. To be deemed important enough for that. As far as Natasha was concerned, a facial expression was a waste of energy.

"For the moment."

Suddenly she was on her feet an she slid toward him. She crouched in front of him, bringing her hand to card it through his hair. He didn't flinch. Natasha was safe, as safe as Coulson had been. She looked at him with her big blue eyes, and he had to lock his arms to keep himself from hugging her. But she must have seen something in his eyes, because suddenly she was on her feet. He looked up at her in askance, confused. She simply held out her hand. He took it and let himself be dragged up. She gave him a once over, and Clint could only imagine what she was seeing. He had avoided mirrors, but if he looked as hungry, tired, and weak as he felt, he couldn't be that far from an actual zombie.

He simply waited for her to be done, knowing that rushing the Black Widow was a stupid and vaguely suicidal idea. And there was a lot wrong with him, but not that. He spent too much of his life fighting to live to give it all up now.

And that would mean Madam won.

Natasha sighed again and went to curl herself on the bed. She cocked her head to the side, gaze steady on him.

"Coming?"

He felt something, a tight knot in his chest slip loose and disappear. He scrambled to follow, and he drew her into his arms. They curled into each other, and they breathed. For half an eternity, they did nothing else.

This was Clint's version of After Mission Sex. Cuddling with Natasha, reassuring himself that she was still there. That he was still there with her. Sometimes, when shit really hit the fan, Coulson would be there as well, sitting in a chair nearby. And after a while someone would start speaking. Not necessarily mission related, just something he needed to say.

One time Tasha talked about her ballet training. Another one, Coulson told them his mother just passed away. Clint would speak about the circus.

But now, there was nothing about the circus that felt right. There was only one thing he could think about, so strong he wasn't sure he could keep it in even if he tried.

"I love him."

Natasha didn't say anything, simply carded her hand slowly through his hair. No matter how he tried to look like he didn't for the past year, there was no way he ever fooled the spy. Clint turned his head toward her, looking at her with big earnest eyes.

"I love him! But I hate him. Not him, but the other him, but sometimes I just can't tell the difference."

She lightly tugged on his hair, until she tucked his head into the crook of her neck. And he talked, because he had to, and she was the only one who would listen to him.

"And there were knives. I hate knives, and he was cutting me and he was having fun. He hated me."

He was probably crying, but he wasn't sure. He was certainly holding her too tight for her to be comfortable, but she didn't complain and kept petting his hair.

"He said I was miserable, and pathetic. He hated me. He pissed on me."

Tasha's hand stilled for a fraction of second, and he knew she was wishing Madam was still alive for her to get to her. To make her regret ever laying a hand on her partner, her best friend. But she resumed moving her hands, and she spoke in a low whisper.

"It wasn't him, Clint. Coulson would never hurt you. Coulson cares for you. Coulson is the one who will always have your back."

He shivered, trying to force his brain to accept what she was saying.

"I know that. But sometimes I don't know. Sometimes I forget, and I'm back there."

She pressed her cheek to the top of his head.

"Do you trust him?"

Clint swallowed.

"I want to, but I-I can't"

Natasha tightened her arms around him, as if she could hold him together by sheer strength. He loved her for trying.

"Do you trust me?"

He looked at her for a long moment, not understanding why she was asking that of him. Had he given her any reason to doubt that? Was he that gone he hurt even his best friend?

"Of course!"

She sighed and whispered.

"Then can you trust me when I tell you can trust him?"

Clint tried, he did, but his brain couldn't link 'him trusting Natasha' and 'Natasha trusting Coulson' to add up to 'him trusting Coulson'. He hated his brain. At least it didn't try to convince him he couldn't trust Natasha either. If it did, Clint was going to seriously consider lobotomy.

It wouldn't be a great loss. He wasn't paid to think, after all.

"It doesn't work."

Natasha sighed, and Clint could hear the helplessness in the sound. He hated that he put it there, but he knew she wouldn't have it any other way.

"Tell me what I can do, Clint. Please tell me."

He shook his head as much as he could against her neck.

"I'm sorry, there's nothing. I'm sorry Tasha."

She pressed her face even more against his forehead. It couldn't be comfortable either, but she wouldn't move if he brought it up.

"Please Clint. I need to know. Anything."

And it came to him. Maybe with Natasha. He wasn't blind; he knew Tasha was a sex bomb, and she was one of the few women who caught his eye. He never really thought about it because it wasn't what they needed. Because Natasha couldn't love him that way, and he had too many mindless flings, he was looking out for something more. But right now it was maybe what he needed, and she was offering. It wasn't what she had in mind, how could it be, but she had said anything.

He needed to try. It had a chance to work, so he had to try. Sleeping with his best friend, no strings attached, it couldn't be that bad. And it was Natasha. She felt his hesitation, and she pressed on.

"Clint?"

"I think..."

"Yes? What, Clint?"

He couldn't bring himself to say it, to ask for it, so he unwrapped one of his arms from around her waist. He let it slowly caress her flank and the top of her thigh. She froze and let him lean back a bit, just enough to look him in the eyes.

"Clint?"

Her voice was hesitant. Sex didn't mean much to her, but she didn't want to misunderstand the situation. He simply looked at her. She spoke again, slowly and clearly.

"Are you sure?"

Of course not, he wasn't, how could he be? But he needed to try. He needed to try.

"Please Natasha."

She pinched her lips.

"Is it what you really want?"

He glared at her.

"Of course not. What I want is to be able to see Coulson without freaking out. To be _with him. _But obviously I can't have that. But I think this could help. Please Tasha."

She looked at him for a long time before cupping his face with her hands.

"Promise me this won't change anything between us."

He covered her hands with his, looking straight into her eyes.

"I swear."

She hesitated for a second, before melting into the familiar act. She leaned forward and kissed him.

Clint let go of her hands and took her hips, dragging her into her lap. She settled snuggly, wiggling just enough to get friction.

**She's too thin. Too light. Not solid enough.**

She opened her mouth to let his tongue slip in.

**She smelled too flowery. Too feminine. **

She started rubbing against him, the swell of her breasts pressing against his chest.

**Too soft, too flexible. **

He laid her down on the bed, climbing over her, never letting her mouth go for more than a few seconds.

**Too willing, too gentle. He needed someone rougher, calloused.**

He needed Coulson. He needed Phil.

_No! Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He couldn't love Coulson._

He slowly unzipped her catsuit, leaving her mouth to trail down, kissing, nipping her pale skin.

**Coulson would be pinning him down, and keep him still, and touch him, giving him everything he needed.**

_Coulson raped him. Coulson said he would give him what he needed, and he raped him._

He bit the tender skin at the top of the bra. He wasn't listening to the noises Natasha made. He tried to keep himself going. He could do this.

He had to do this.

It would help him. For Coulson.

He wanted Coulson. Needed Coulson's mouth on him. Needed his mouth on Coulson. Needed Coulson in him.

_Coulson raped him. Coulson cut him open. Coulson pissed on him._

Natasha's uniform was opened nearly to her navel, but Clint was still mouthing at her bosom.

He needed Coulson. Please. He needed Phil.

_Coulson raped him. Coulson didn't deserve to look at him ever again._

He needed-

_He couldn't-_

Coulson.

Please.

_Phil._

He jumped away, curling himself at the edge of the mattress, head in his hands, whimpering. Why couldn't his brain give him a break?

Natasha appeared behind him, tucking her chin over his shoulder, wrapping her arms around his waist. She didn't care about being half nude, and he didn't either. It wasn't as if he was anywhere near aroused. Even for him it was a new low. He usually got at least interested, but not today.

_"_I'm sorry, I can't-I can't."

She shushed him in a gentle whisper.

_"_It's okay, Clint. It'll pass. Give it time."

He whimpered, clutching his hair.

"I love him."

"I know, I know. Be patient. You love him; you'll relearn to trust him."

He nodded, and didn't move.

They stayed like that for a long time, until they fell asleep in each other's arms, Natasha offering the only comfort Clint could accept.

**A/N: I wanted to thank everyone who took time to leave a review, it always warms my heart! I've also had a few people asking me to do a Phil POV of this story. I simply wanted to say it was something I thought about doing, but it'll depend of my readers' will. **


	5. Wondering was she really here?

For a few days, Natasha did her best to keep Clint busy, using her after-mission leave to drag him all over the city. Clint suspected Fury was also aware that his capacity to eventually reproduce was very at risk should he get in The Black Widow's way. According to Sitwell she even got a written agreement to always be warned when he got taken, no matter what kind of situation she was in.

It was for reasons like this that he loved Natasha. She was a mother hen. A very deadly mother hen, but still. Not that anyone else would believe him. The only other person to know this side of her was Coulson.

They went to the amusement park, paintballing, visited museums, saw plays; anything they could find. Clint hadn't had any kind of proper education, but he had been adamant to keep up on his culture. He particularly loved the musicals, which reminded him of his days in the circus. Natasha loved dance spectacles, and would bring Clint to some of them. Sometimes she would go alone, especially for contemporary dance, which Clint found boring most of the time.

He spent a lot of time out by himself as well, watching people go by. He loved imagining what their life must be like, what normal people did on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, why they were crossing the park.

Escaping in other people's lives always helped him dealing with his own. Tasha told him people usually did that by reading, or watching TV. Clint wouldn't know, not being fluent enough in reading for it to be enjoyable to him, never been good at it, even when he was at school, and TV was either completely insane, like the reality show Coulson liked, or boring, like Natasha's favored documentaries. He preferred to rely on his own head anyway. Sitwell once remarked he would be an amazing writer once, after he told him about the story of the businessman who used to be a prostitute addicted to apple sauce.

That was one of his good ones. But that brought him back to the problem that he was even worse at writing than reading. So he stuck to shooting stuff. He didn't need to be bright to shoot stuff. Just have steady hands and good aim.

He wasn't paid to think. He wasn't good at it anyway. Look at how much his brain was freaking out at the moment.

He sighed and sprawled back on the bench, closing his eyes. It felt good to be back outside, after so much time cooped up indoors. Clint wasn't claustrophobic, but he couldn't deny the walls seemed to get closer and closer as days passed.

And as each day passed, he told himself he would go to see Coulson. And as days passed by, the idea became easier and easier to entertain. He still choked long before he could get anywhere, but he started to believe Natasha; that it would get better. That he would be able to see Coulson again.

It did help that it had been nearly a month since the attack, and nothing bad had happened. He trained, he went out, and he pretended not to know that Fury refused to send him out, still wary of his mental stability. He didn't really mind though, he wouldn't trust himself in a situation that could remind him of his kidnapping.

He just needed time. He was still the best sniper out there. He even signed up to help train the recruits, partly because they didn't know him yet, and partly because he needed to know he earned his pay at least a little. He never like not being useful. Being useless meant being cut loose. He didn't want that.

He needed to see Coulson again.

He didn't hear her approach, but suddenly he felt her there, standing in front of him. He could almost see her crossed arms and cocked head, one perfectly trimmed eyebrow quirked up. She was assessing him, his mood. He grinned lightly, and opened his eyes just a sliver, staring at her in return.

"You seem in a good mood today."

He shrugged, and lifted his arms above his head to stretch his back.

" I've been worst."

Natasha nodded, but her eyes were dancing. She offered him her hand, and dragged him to his feet. He didn't ask anything, but cocked his head at her before slipping his sunglasses on. She shrugged in turn.

"Come on, let's get drinks. I'm buying."

Clint smirked, and looked at his watch. He had lost track of time, and it was already past six o'clock.

"Getting me drunk, Natasha? What's the occasion?"

She smiled fleetingly at him, and looped her arm around his, dragging him discreetly to one of their favorite spots. To anyone else they would look like a young couple, and Clint was more than happy to let them think whatever they wanted.

"It's not like it's hard to get you drunk, you're such a lightweight. And the occasion? It's 'congratulations you didn't die!' drinks."

Clint snorted, because he could outdrink almost all of S.H.I.E.L.D., but Natasha played in a different league. He nudged her shoulder lightly, because if he wasn't careful she would start to retaliate, and that would undoubtedly end with him on his ass.

"The mission was a month ago."

She rolled her eyes and jabbed a sharp finger between his ribs.

"It's the first night I'm not afraid you will throw yourself down a building if you get one too many shots. This is not open to discussion."

Clint didn't even bother to argue, because she was probably right. And he was apparently even more stealthy when shit faced than normal, enough that he could actually get the slip on Natasha. He simply leaned a bit more on her. Not enough that she would actually have to support him, but that they would be pressed from thigh to shoulder. She smiled a bit.

They never talked about that night. The one where he tried to have sex with her, and failed miserably. He knew she didn't think anything of it, except being concerned for him, but he felt terrible about asking this from her, now that he had time to look back on it. Natasha had been used for sex enough in her life without her best friend adding to it.

She jabbed his ribs again, frowning slightly, and he met her eyes. She talked slowly.

"You're overthinking it. We are going to get drinks. I'm going to get you drunk, and drag your sorry ass to your apartment. You're going to be hung over, and I'll laugh at you. End of story."

He chuckled, and nodded at her. Finally they arrived, and the waitress let them slide in to their usual booth. Natasha settled quickly and gestured for the first round. She smirked at him.

"Have you heard about Carter's latest stunt?"

Carter was an extremely competent agent, but had anxious tendencies that caused several problems in the past. He was able to repair whatever trouble he started, but Clint would always remember him as the dud he was able to make cry by simply staring at him. Not the other man's finest hour. He leaned forward.

"Do tell."

OOOOOOOO

A few hours later, he was definitely drunk, but he had the pride of knowing Natasha was also way past tipsy, though the only thing giving her away was the spark in her irises and an open smile that hung on her mouth.

He was lying on the bench, giggling breathlessly. Natasha had a hand on his ankle, and was looking at the other occupants of the bar, daring them to come nearer, to bother them.

"I think Hill doesn't hate me anymore."

Natasha snorted, and rolled her head to look at him.

"Hill didn't hate you. She was just... irritated by you."

Clint laughed, not knowing exactly why, but it felt good.

"Yeah, no. Remember that time with the paintballs in the conference room? She looked ready to chew metal."

Natasha chuckled, remembering the prank. She had helped him smuggle the equipment into the facility, and heard that the R&D staff had been responsible for the screw up with his explosive arrows. He almost blew himself up, and had been held responsible. He hadn't liked the idea of the goons never being blamed for it.

The white lab coat had been ideal for the paint, and it gave a quite agreeable result that Clint had been rather proud of. He knew a few of them had kept their coats, one of them even framed it with the title 'I've been shot by Hawkeye and lived to tell the tale'. The archer fell off his chair laughing.

"Don't worry, she was pissed because she was amused. She isn't like that."

Clint swatted his hand loosely, not even bothering to look at her.

"Psh, she hated me. She thinks I'm a jackass."

Natasha pinched his ankle, and rolled her eyes.

"You are a jackass."

Clint glared at her as much as he could, which he knew wasn't really impressive, sprawled as he was on a cheap red faux leather booth. Not that he couldn't still take on anybody but her in the bar, but he definitely had lost his 'lethal aura'-Sitwell's words.

"Hush you. That wasn't my point anyways."

Natasha smiled and gestured widely with her hands, graciously offering him the permission to develop his thoughts. He stuck his tongue out at her, grinning.

"You're too good for me. I meant, Hill doesn't hate me anymore. I won Hill over. I won Agent fucking Maria fucking Hill over. I'm a fucking bawss."

She smiled him, and leaned forward to ruffle his hair playfully.

"That you are."

He swatted her hand away playfully, a grin on his lips.

"Will you let me finish?"

"Then get to the point."

"Be patient, little spider. How are you a spy?"

She glared at him, and he beamed impishly in answer. Her gaze didn't waver, asking for him to continue. He rolled his shoulders to settle in more comfortably, a bit more serious.

"I mean, if I got Hill to not hate me, maybe I can get Coulson to love me back? Right? Come on, Tasha, talk to me."

He tried to poke her, and missed by a good foot, but she caught his wrist and massaged it, eyes trying to be a bit more sober and failing. Even for Natasha there was a limit of vodka she could recover from to have a serious discussion. She opened her mouth a few time before she spoke.

"I think you were almost closer to get Coulson to love you than getting Hill to like you."

Clint rolled his eyes at her.

"I'm not saying she likes me, Tasha, it's not that big of a miracle. But honestly, what about Coulson? Do you think he could- He could? Like, more than a friend?"

Natasha worried her lips between her teeth. This was not her area of experience, and she knew it. But she knew her boys.

"I think he does, Clint."

The archer looked at her for a long time.

"Do you think if I tell him? Right, I have to be brave, you know, take the initiative. I should do that, right? I can do that?"

Natasha frowned, like she knew there was a problem with his plan but couldn't pin point it. Then finally her face lit up before dimming, because she found the flaw and wasn't happy about it.

"You can't talk to him."

Clint frowned for a moment. Yes, that did cause a problem. He had to tell Phil though. He needed to tell Coulson why it hurt so much when he thought he had turned. Coulson had to know he didn't hate him.

Maybe that as the key, after all! How would he do it? He stared at Natasha without really seeing her, thinking hard. Finally he beamed, and fished for his phone. He fumbled for a while, the little sucker having fun evading him, and at last he got a hold of it. He let out a cheer, and started composing Coulson's number. Suddenly Natasha stole it out of his fingers, and he pouted at her. She held it out of reach in case he tried to take a dive for it.

"I don't think it's a good idea."

Clint rolled his eyes, and held his left hand out, requesting for the cell to be handed back to him.

"What do you know about these things, Tasha?"

She bit her lip, and looked at the small device, hesitating.

"Not much, but really, you should tell him in person."

"I can't! You know I can't! Last time I tried I almost toppled you over because I ran away when I heard his voice! But I need to tell him."

"Clint-"

Clint pursed his lips. She had to understand, she wouldn't give him his phone back otherwise.

"He thinks I hate him, Tasha. Please, I need to tell him I don't. I don't want him to hurt anymore."

"Clint, I'm not sure about it..."

"Tasha, maybe he loves me too!"

Clint was vaguely aware he wouldn't ever entertain that train of thought if he was anywhere close to sober, but somehow his good mood of the day seemed to have transmitted itself to his drunken mood. Natasha cocked an eyebrow at him, uncertain.

"And what if he does, Clint? You still can't talk to him. Do you want him to wait for you until you get better?"

Clint pouted.

"I don't want him to lose hope."

Natasha rolled her eyes at him, calling him on his bullshit.

"You've pined for him for four years."

"Not the same thing. Coulson's not stupid like me. And he never attacked me."

Natasha stared at him, but finally relented and nodded, throwing the phone at him. He caught it deftly, and stuck his tongue in his cheek, typing cautiously, avoiding spelling mistakes as much as possible. He didn't want to be misunderstood. It was _important._

'Agent Coulson, sir. I know you've ignored my other texts, so I hope you'll read this one. I'm sorry for hitting you and throwing the vase. I also wanted to tell you I'm kinda in love with you. You know, just so you know I don't hate you and all that. Yeah. Love you. Ciao.'

He reread it a couple of time and smiled. Not exactly Dickens' level, but good enough if he said so himself. It conveyed his message rather clearly. He doubted even he couldn't get it wrong if he received it. He beamed at Natasha as he pressed send, proud of himself.

He told Coulson he loved him, and maybe Coulson would like him back. It was a good day. Natasha dropped another shot in front of him. He took it and bottomed up, not noticing when Natasha took the phone from him and deleted the messages sent nor the guilty look she threw at him.

OOOOOOOOO

Clint woke up in his bed, groaning. How was it that each time he forgot why it was a bad idea to go out for drinks with Natasha he never understood, but the end result was always the same. He forgot, and felt like shit the following morning. Then again, it was a fool proof way to remind him he was still alive. If it hurt, then he couldn't be dead. And it felt somewhat comforting that it was his head killing him this time, and not the cuts that had finally healed, or his heart because he had yet again failed to go and see Coulson.

Felt good to be sick for a normal reason. He Didn't remember throwing up, but then again he didn't remember much from the night before. He vaguely recalled entering the bar, but everything after that was lost. Natasha must have brought him back to his place afterward, like she usually did. It was the only time she would come, though she never came in. It was perhaps the only part of him he didn't share with her.

With a groan, he pulled himself to his feet and stumbled into the bathroom to brush his teeth and shower, cleaning off the last remnants of the night before.

After fifteen minutes he trudged to his kitchen dressed only in sweat pants, his damp hair sticking in every direction. He saw his phone on the table and went to check it. Predictably it was empty. Natasha always erased any messages he sent, because he would wound himself up about them and in the end nothing bad would happen, because everyone knew to spot and ignore Clint's drunk rambling.

The archer knew she meant it as a protective measure, but it was still annoying not being able to know what stupid things he said and did. He hated when others had the advantage on him, knew something about him, had blackmail material he wasn't even aware existed.

He knew Natasha would hunt anyone who used said material on him-as far as she was concerned she was the only one allowed to needle him-but he preferred to maintain the illusion that he didn't need her.

It was false; he relied on her far too much, but he liked to act otherwise anyways. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. It was hard to appear dangerous and lethal if he had to resort to a woman to protect him and his interests.

The fact that the woman was the infamous Black Widow was irrelevant. He should and could be self-sustaining.

He glared at the cell phone like it was the small device's fault; he had learned from experience that trying to hack into his records was more trouble than it was worth. He resigned himself to remaining ignorant, and fixed himself a quick breakfast. He wasn't in a rush, he had nothing special to do back at base today, but he had taken to spending as little time as possible at his place, even less than he had before. His quarters back at base, for the first time in years, were more inviting than here. The only reason Natasha dropped him there was that Fury didn't take kindly to having drunk employees roaming around his HQ. What you did in your spare time was your problem, as long as it didn't interfere with your work, but there were too many sensitive things laying around at S.H.I.E.L.D. for it not to be dangerous for all involved.

Sooner than anyone would have expected him, Clint reached the familiar building and slipped in. He nodded to the agent who had been assigned to the front desk as a 'receptionist'. Fury never hired a real receptionist, it was too dangerous with the top secret aspect of the job, so the post was handed to whoever screwed up that week. Clint was usually well aware of what the offense was, but he couldn't for the life of him guess what the aged cafeteria cashier could have done to deserve the punishment. Perhaps she tried to slip decaf to Fury and Hill.

That was a Capital Offense.

He walked briskly to the range, wincing as the harsh white lights attacked his sensitive eyes. He had taken a couple of painkillers, but they hadn't kicked in yet, and his headache was still raging. He was hoping to lose himself in the familiarity of shooting until it was gone. It rarely lasted more than two or three hours, so he gave himself good odds.

He started with guns, as it'd been a long time since he practiced with side arms. A bow and arrows were his favorite, and lately he had indulged to his preference, but he needed stay on top.

After a few rounds, he switched to his bow, and truly lost track of time. The blank space where nothing mattered was so much better than any drug he could take. It had the advantage of not affecting brain cells, as well. It was as addictive, as far as he was concerned, but that was his problem.

He dropped his bow and allowed his shoulders to relax, letting a satisfied smile tug the corner of his mouth at the sight of the targets filled with arrows. It was at moments like this one that he allowed himself to be proud. When everything was perfect and it didn't require any effort. He liked to push himself, to push his limits but most of all he loved knowing all of his effort had been worthwhile.

He could be nothing but the best, after all. If not, he would be nothing but a guy with a bow.

He heard someone knocking on the door, and he didn't turn around. It was probably Natasha, coming to check on him, making sure he wasn't half dead from last night. The thought brought him to realize his headache was gone, and he smiled even more at that. Being pain free was well on its way to becoming his favorite sensation of all.

"Can I come in?"

Clint heart flew to his throat at the sound of the soft voice. One that hadn't spoken to him in a month, one that he'd been dying to hear.

He was proud of himself for not panicking, but his throat was much too tight for him to even consider talking. He simply nodded, head still not turning, but looking at Coulson's approach from the corner of his eye. The man stopped a few feet away from him, farther than his usual polite three feet, and Clint blessed him for not making this conversation anymore awkward than it promised to be.

Coulson opened and closed his mouth a couple times, not sure how to begin. After a deep bracing breath, he spoke, his voice calm, slow, and measured, as far from threatening as the man could muster it.

"Do you have a few minutes?"

Clint wanted to snort. Of course he had a few minutes! He had the rest of the day, the rest of the week. Hell, maybe he even had the rest of the month, who knew what was going through Fury's head. In the end, he simply nodded again.

Coulson faltered, not used to Clint being so uncommunicative. Sure, it had always been hard to draw a direct answer from the archer, but he usually covered it with babbles and rambling about one thing or another.

Dead silence wasn't something Clint had bestowed on anyone since his beginnings at S.H.I.E.L.D. and it wasn't something Coulson appreciated. The older agent sighed and continued.

"Can we talk?"

Clearly the answer to that couldn't simply be a nod, but Clint didn't answer right away. Principally because his answer would have been something along the lines of 'No get the fuck away from me!' which wasn't what he wanted to say at all. Sadly the agent's presence brought back the old litanies.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get away from Coulson._

He wanted to bang his head against the wall, because he had become a pro at shutting that part of his brain up lately, but he couldn't be this lucky. See, if he had been a movie character, this would have been the part where he discovered he was healed and would have thrown himself at the man of his dreams. Sadly, this wasn't a movie. He managed to force out of whisper.

"I think so."

Coulson seemed to second guess his presence, but finally decided to go forward. The archer once again took a moment to admire his courage. He would have run away a long time ago.

"If you become too uncomfortable for this conversation, please tell me and I'll leave."

Clint wanted to thank him, but he couldn't. It would be too much, so he simply looked down, at the other man's polished shoes, nodding, and muttered a "Yeah, sure," trusting the other man to hear him.

Coulson apparently did, and whatever he was going to say was apparently bad, because he fisted his hands, knuckles turning white and jaw set. Clint couldn't help but panic a bit. Was S.H.I.E.L.D. going to fire him after all? Commit him because his problem was too big for them?

"What are your feelings toward me, Barton?"

Screw everything. This was so much worse. So, so terribly worse. Clint felt every muscle in his body tense up. He whirled around, to face Coulson. He took the opportunity to look at him, cataloguing his face, because there was no way this would go smoothly.

"Why do you ask?"

He nearly winced at the aggressiveness of his tone, and Coulson clearly recoiled, looking unsure. The agent's voice was still even, though, and god, Clint loved him all the more for it.

"Please, Barton, just answer me. I'll leave after."

Barton tried to smirk, but he knew it was more of an awkward rictus.

"Why? You decided you were through with me, and you're looking for a good excuse to put in your report? Agent Barton was emotionally compromised?"

He wanted to hit himself, especially when Coulson's face fell a bit at his words; god, what kind of an idiot was he? Coulson was giving him the perfect opportunity!

_Coulson would use it against him, if he knew. He would hurt him._

Of course not, Coulson would only let him down gently, if he didn't return the feeling. That's all. He had to tell him.

_Coulson hurt h-_

SHUT UP!

Coulson must have seen Clint was getting lost in his head again, and he took a small step forward, concern etched over his face. How did he do this? No matter how often Clint hurt him, send him to hell, ignored him, he still put him behind him, still caring for his agent.

"Barton? Barton!"

When he got no answer, and Clint seemed to shrink on himself. Despite his textbook application of the military posture, he tried again, a bit more forceful.

"Clint!"

That snapped the archer out of his daze and he took an instinctual step back at discovering Coulson closer than he had been.

"See! Write this in your report! That I'm fucked up! That I'm screwed over and not fit for duty. That you can't handle me because I freak out whenever you're around! You want to get rid of me go fucking right ahead! But don't try to bring my feelings into this!"

Coulson's eyes were pained and his demeanor tense, but he still answered, his voice so low that Barton barely heard it over his harsh breathing.

"I'm not handing over, I swear I'm not, but please, I need to know."

The only thing that kept Clint from interrupting him mid-sentence was five years of respect. Clint wanted to scream and call him a liar but he didn't, because he needed to listen to Coulson. Just like he hadn't been able not to listen to the Other Coulson, he couldn't ignore this one. Listening to his handler had saved his life too often and the reflex was ingrained now.

This all didn't mean that Clint wasn't flat out panicking now, because Coulson wasn't leaving and he wasn't obeying, couldn't obey, and disobedience meant punishment. And since he had sworn he would never attack Phil physically again, he fell back without even noticing into his default panic mode. Being a Jerk.

"Well I need not to be afraid of my own shadow! I need to be able to look at my handler without cowering in fear! I need to be able to go back in the field because I'm going mad cooped up in here, but Fury won't let me out because I'm too fucked up for anyone to trust, especially since I CAN'T WORK WITH MY HANDLER! And you know why? Because you screwed up at some point in the past! So forgive me for not giving you what _you _need, or giving you any reason to boost up your self-esteem over the nutcase I am."

Clint blinked and finally realized what he had just said. Coulson looked like someone had stabbed him a dozen times in the belly, eyes full of a pain so great Clint could _feel _it. All the energy he had left him, and he fell on his knees, whimpering. Coulson hadn't moved yet, and God, he was so going to hate him now.

Five years of being on his best behavior to try and catch the man's eyes and he threw it all on the ground like the complete imbecile he was.

He started to repeat "I'm sorry" over and over again, andcouldn't stop. He wanted the agent to forgive him, but knew he shouldn't. He had just thrown back in Coulson's face exactly what the agent must have told himself ever since Clint was taken. He was blaming him for something that wasn't his fault.

Coulson finally moved, and crouched two feet away from where Clint was kneeling still, chanting his apologies.

"Barton?"

Clint sobbed, but didn't interrupt his litany. The agent slowly extended his arm and put a hand on the archer's shoulder. Clint tensed, but didn't flinch. He had to stay still, to convince Coulson that he still trusted him deep down, that he only needed time.

He needed time.

Please don't hate him.

Please forgive him.

"Clint."

The archer raised his head to look into the other man's blue eyes. They were hurt and pained and sad, and yet soft and kind. Clint felt relieved and yet despaired even more, knowing that there was no way he could ever deserve Phil Coulson.

"It's okay."

Clint shook his head so hard he felt dizzy, and interrupted his apologies just long enough to slip in a "No it's not" before starting over again. Phil made a soft sound, and squeezed the archer's shoulder once, just to get his attention.

"No, I am sorry. Please come to see me when you are ready."

And with that he stood up and left. As soon as he exited the room, Clint could breathe better, and he felt a tear or two slip down his cheek. He was aware of time's passage, and yet couldn't move. He wasn't sure if he ever stopped whispering he was sorry, but he knew that after five minutes, the range's door slid open and he was drawn into Natasha's warm embrace.

She didn't say anything, simply held him, and when he was able to, she guided him to his bed. Clint vaguely noticed she took all of his weapons, knives, guns, bow and crossbows, with her. It was useless.

He couldn't die.

If he died, he wouldn't be able to make it up to Coulson.


	6. Fall asleep with roses in my hands

Clint was a pathetic human being.

He had been back to roaming the air ducts in the tower, trying to make sure Coulson was doing fine. He knew if Coulson had said anything close to what he said to him, he would have been weeping in a corner. However the agent continued with his day, and with the rest of the week like nothing was going on.

The only clue that the agent was shaken came from Hill. The woman, who had made herself scarce around Coulson and Clint, cornered the older agent one day. She looked serious and determined, and thus slightly scary. Coulson being himself didn't flinch away, but his eyes were wary.

"Do you know what happened to Barton?"

Coulson's jaw tensed and he glared at her.

"What do you mean?"

Hill's mouth twisted, and Barton wanted to make her shut up, but that would imply revealing he was there, and that there was something to hide. That would simply bring Coulson to ask questions, and he didn't want him to. So he could only watch like one would a train wreck.

"I mean he was getting better, and now he's crashed again for some reason. Why?"

Coulson's eyes hardened for a fleeting moment, and Clint saw everything he wanted to say. That she had no right to accuse him. That it was her fault to begin with. That she had no right to suddenly worry about him now when he had been for five years.

But he kept silent, because he was Agent Coulson, and Agent Coulson was a consummate professional. So he simply glared at her until she took a step back, and he walked away, shoulders tense and fists clenching and unclenching. Barton wanted to hit Hill and make her shut up. Wasn't it obvious Coulson was beating himself enough as it was?

Wasn't it obvious that Clint was making him suffer enough as it was? He hated himself for making Coulson suffer. He hated Hill for the same reason. Coulson didn't deserve all this.

Coulson deserved only the best there was. He deserved more than the best. Clint clenched his hands and slid away, back to his quarters. He hesitated going to the range, but he had already did a few hours in the morning, and didn't want to give them any reason to lock him out again.

He slid down just beside his bed and sighed, leaning to drop his head against the wall. He could do this. He was getting better. He almost had a talk with Coulson.

He also sent him to hell, but hey, it would be too easy if everything was good and well right away. With a bit of hope, Coulson would wait for him.

Coulson, who had apparently finally caught up with the fact Clint was head over heels in love with him. Clint was completely lost as to how it happened now. It wasn't as if he gave Coulson a lot of hints lately. He only hoped the older agent wouldn't be too repelled by it.

There was a sharp knock on the door, but Clint ignored it, not moving. He hadn't the energy to deal with Tasha at the moment, and Coulson wouldn't make the same mistake twice.

The knocking came again, stronger, and Clint frowned, not moving. Usually, Natasha either got the hint, or forced her way in. After a long moment, a woman's voice rung through the intercom.

"Alright Barton, open the damn door or I blackmail Sitwell into letting me in. Your choice."

Barton didn't recognize the woman, but she seemed pretty intent. He decided to let her in, sparing Sitwell the troubles of dealing with whoever she was. If nothing else, she would probably be a good distraction. He slowly straightened himself up, and went to open the door.

On the other side stood a petite woman with long brown flowing hair. Her clear blue eyes were glaring daggers at him and her arms were crossed over an ample bosom she seemed to be trying to hide under a baggy shirt. Barton simply stared at her. She was clearly not a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, her absence of composure definitely screaming _'Civilian'._

Clint cocked his head to the side, resting face firmly in place.

_"_What can I do for you?"

She leered and leaned forward speaking slowly, as if to a very young child.

"First, you could let me in?"

Clint sighed, and stepped to the side. He wasn't sure what this was all about, but he could bet he didn't want it to happen in the middle of the hallway. She stalked in, and whirled around to face him as he closed the door. Clint tried to smile at her, perfectly aware he was exuding 'I don't have a clue what's going on' vibes. She pursed her lips.

"What kind of moron are you?"

Clint's eyes widened, and stared at her for a long moment. It wasn't as if it was the first time someone asked him a question or something so forward, but they usually talked to him for at least ten minutes. He leaned forward.

"I beg your pardon?"

She pursed her lips at him, full of righteous anger. Clint was getting worried she would attack him. He wouldn't think she would actually hurt him, but attacking a civilian would looked pretty bad on a file.

"What. Kind. Of. Moron. Are. You? What's your fucking problem?"

Clint stammered for a few seconds before muttering.

"You might have to narrow the field a bit, ma'am. Who are you anyway?"

Her nostrils flared, and her eyes were harder than ice. She couldn't be older than twenty but she was more impressive than Hill at the moment.

"I'm Darcy Coulson."

Clint felt a lot of things at the same time. Surprise, because that confirmed that agent Coulson did have a life outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. Pride, because he was important enough that Coulson talked about him outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. Shame, because he upset Coulson enough that someone came to give him shit for it. Despair, pain and jealousy, because Coulson had a partner, because this girl couldn't be anything but his daughter. Darcy kept silent, watching emotions chase each other over his face. Finally he croaked.

"Darcy Coulson?"

She grinned joylessly. Clint couldn't help but see Coulson's bland smile when he was on the field, the one that was supposed to hide the threat they posed but only highlighted it for anyone who know anything at all. She spoke calmly, in contrast with her thunderous eyes.

"Yeah. And I'd like to know why you are being such a jackass and torturing my father all the time."

Clint's blood ran cold, and he wanted to hide in the bathroom. The girl was officially looking mad enough to bite him.

"I don't-"

She yelled and threw her arms into the air, gesturing over everything.

"Look, I've heard about the whole kidnapping thing, and honestly, I'm proud of you, 'cause if it'd happened to me, I'd be curled up in a corner crying. What I'm talking about is my father pining after another man for five years. I'm talking about him being just about to make a move, when the said man gets kidnapped. Which, again, totally not your fault. But then you come back, and after a month of worrying himself sick over his love, he gets a text admitting him his love for him. And what happens the day after? He gets everything that has _tortured _him for a month thrown back in his face."

She stopped, chest heaving quite visibly, and she looked angry, sad, and worried. Clint couldn't wrap what she said around his head.

"Love me? And what text?"

She looked at him in disbelief, like she couldn't believe he actually said that.

"Are you kidding me? What text? The text you sent him the day before he came to see you? And love you? Of course he does! Do you think he gets that cozy with everyone?"

Clint felt trapped, but not in the way Coulson did. The old 'trapped', the one that came with talking about feelings. Especially with people he didn't know. Darcy was waiting for Clint to answer, a disgusted turn of her lips. Clint shook his head.

"No. It's not possible. He can't-"

Darcy sighed, and spat.

"Why not? Why can't you let him choose what he wants?"

He turned around to stare at her, crying out.

"Because he's obviously straight, since he conceived you at some point! That he has someone in his life. Because in five years he hasn't ever indicated he was interested in me! Because I've been an absolute jerk to him in the last month? How many more reasons do you need?"

She sighed, and rubbed one hand over her eyes, after she removed her thick framed glasses.

"Ok, fledgling, I think I'm going to have to bring you up to speed with a few things. First? I don't pretend to understand my father's tastes, though I'm starting to seriously doubt him. I mean I get the physical appeal, but honestly... Anyway, there's a new concept in town called _bisexuality. _Ever heard of that? Because that's what my dad is. Also, my mom left us and got herself killed when I was ten. So I'd say they are pretty much over."

She stopped and looked at him for a long time. Clint had no idea what to say. He looked away, carding his hand through his hair.

"He can't. He must hate me."

He didn't know what she must have seen in his eyes, but if he looked half as pathetic as he felt, than it was no wonder her eyes softened, and she took a step toward him.

"What's going through your head, Agent Barton? He loves you. Scouts honor. Give yourself a chance. Give the both of you a chance."

Clint looked at her for a long time. He opened his mouth slowly.

"Clint. Call me Clint?"

Darcy's eyes wideneda fraction, and she smiled

"Right. Clint. I feel a bit weird about having free reign over my father's boyfriend's first name before my father. Anyway, are you going to?"

He sighed, and felt his lips twitch upward a bit. Her expressions were contagious, and Clint wanted to see what Coulson was like at home if his daughter was so free. He needed it so bad it hurt for a second. Darcy must have seen something in his eyes, because suddenly, she jumped a few steps and wrapped her arms around him. She hugged him so tight, so firmly, that he felt it putting him back together a bit more.

It was different, so different from Natasha. More open and warm. Natasha understood, understood his life and where he came from. But Darcy didn't care. Darcy was happy and wanted the rest of the world to be too.

After a long while, she released him, and brought him to sit down on the bed. She sat cross legged in front of him, looking at him with big earnest eyes. Clint didn't know what to do. Innocent wasn't something he dealt often in his job, or in his life for that matter.

She pinched her lips, and seemed to find something to say.

"What's going on, Clint?"

He stared at her for a long time, trying to decide what she meant, then he sighed. He was muttering, not looking at her. Her eyes looked at bit too much like her father's, kind and understanding. He was impressed she that she had gone from mad to gentle in that little of a time span. Even Hill wasn't that volatile in her period.

And Hill was a fearsome thing to behold when she was on her period. She nearly extracted of Woo's teeth once.

"I was kidnapped, and I thought Coulson, your father, was doing it. It thought he was torturing me, he was cutting me up, and he was pissing on me. And I hated him. I wanted to hit him, to kill him. But I still loved him. I'm fucked up, I'm dependent, I need him. And they knew this. They used it. They used me to hurt him. I hurt him. I should have just ended it."

That made her jump back to being mad, and she grabbed his chin to make him look at her. He was breathing hard.

"No. You are not doing that. Because _that? _That would crush him. Why are you so hung up on him?"

Clint frowned at her, not understanding.

"What?"

The younger woman looked at him before sighing.

"I love him, he's the best father I ever could have hoped for. But other people, they never see that. They see a boring G-man, and they dump him. I've seen him try to date, after my mother left, men and women. It always ended up with him sitting on the couch, hugging me so tight sometimes I could hardly breathe. So he stopped. And then you came around, and it was the same thing, only he didn't make a move, because he thought you saw him as they did. Only obviously you didn't. Why?"

Clint stared at her for a long time, gaping. How was there anyone anywhere that could see Coulson as boring and ordinary? He wanted to go and hunt them down. Maybe without them he could have been with Coulson for years now. But Darcy was looking at him expectantly. So he talked. Was what it with Coulsons and making him talk far too much?

"I don't know. It just happened. Nat thinks it's about my past. The last person I've loved and been able to trust was my brother, and that didn't turn out so well. So for years I've been on my own, and suddenly S.H.I.E.L.D. takes me in, and for two months again I'm shipped from one guy to another, and no one trusts me, and I don't trust them and it's a mess. It's a big fucking mess. Then they send me Coulson, and in about five minutes, he destroyed any illusion I could have about him being a boring government drone. And he kept on being badass, and saving _my _ass, and caring about what I thought and going out of his way to help me here."

Darcy put a hand on his knee and huffed.

"He who doesn't trust will not be trusted."

Clint nodded and smiled ruefully.

"Pretty much. So I kind of threw all the trust and affection and-fuck it all-love I'd never been able to give to anyone at him. I never expected him to even consider me anything more than a friend, and I was dealing with it."

She seemed skeptical.

"You were?"

He grimaced and nodded.

"Yeah, I was. Then everything happened, and I can't even talk to him properly, and I don't think I can deal with it anymore."

Darcy pondered silently, her eyes never leaving him, going for the hands he was twisting mercilessly, to his heaving chest and his hard face. She sighed and dragged him into another hug. The angle was weird and slightly uncomfortable, with them still seated cross-legged on the thin mattress, but he accepted the embrace nonetheless.

"What do you need?"

He snorted humorlessly, pressing his face into her shoulder.

"Him."

She huffed and pushed him away, an amused spark in her eyes.

"I'm going to assume you are talking about speaking with him and possibly a date and nothing more because I really don't want to think about my father having sex, no matter how hot his partner would be. You're very hot, by the way."

Clint snickered and smirked at her. He was glad she was still a normal kid on some aspect, because meddling with her father's love life and trying to match him with a professional assassin wasn't something most children did for their parents. Darcy seemed to think it over again.

"I just realized I kinda hugged a professional spy without being explicitly invited twice in the past hour. Do I need to be worried? Because I'm pretty sure that was on the list of things I couldn't do that my father gave me. You know, between slipping them acid and switching their guns for water guns?"

Clint was surprised when laughter escaped him, but really, was this girl even real?

"Hm, no, I make exception for Coulsons."

She smiled at him and shrugged.

"Well, legally speaking it's 'Lewis', but I appreciate the sentiment."

Clint cocked his head to the side.

"Lewis?"

"Yeah, you know, my father was worried they'd use me against him and all that so he made me change my name so I was a little less obvious as a target. Lewis was the name of a guy I had a crush on in elementary school."

He smiled. It did sound like something Coulson would think of.

"Not your mother's?"

She pursed her lips in disgust, eyes hard and cutting.

"Her surname was Grace, and she didn't deserve me to wear it."

Clint's eyebrows shot up. He hadn't met that woman-obviously since she'd been dead for ten years, but she certainly got her daughter to resent her.

"Kids get to choose whether their parents are worthy of them?"

Darcy pursed her lips and looked away.

"I did, and she wasn't. As far as I'm concerned, I'm still Darcy Coulson."

Clint nodded. Fair enough. But a subject change was probably in order.

"Acid? Water gun?"

Darcy giggled and let herself flop down on his bed, legs still crossed. She couldn't be comfortable, but she didn't complain.

"My mother just ran away, I was rebelling, I was bored, and I resented them for calling my father away all the time. I knew he was trying to be there for me and I was mad at them for tearing him away. I terrorized them for a couple months. Ask Hill about it, she remembers."

Clint smirked at her, leaning his back on the wall.

"So that's how you got in."

The younger woman smiled at the ceiling.

"Yeah, that and making pretty eyes at Woo. He might be star struck for a few days. The girls have that effect."

Clint didn't need to look at her to know she was gesturing at her boobs. He might be gay but he could appreciate them. He was still human. He rolled his head to the side to look at her.

"How come I've never seen you around?"

She shrugged, and raised her hands above her head, hunching her shoulders up.

"I'm too small, I can slip around without anyone noticing!"

Clint only arched an eyebrow because honestly, he wouldn't be worthy of his code name if he couldn't spot a feisty bouncing civilian with bright red lipstick. She snorted.

"I stopped coming often a bit before you arrived, with school and friends and the whole thing. And lately I've been studying on the other side of the country."

He arched an eyebrow at her.

"Why?"

She smirked evilly.

"Because dad still refuses to let me join S.H.I.E.L.D. so I decided to keep away until I became so badass Fury would have no choice but to hire me. Don't tell him, though. He thinks I saw reason and decided to have a normal, calm job."

Clint smirked and nodded.

"I won't."

Darcy nodded, satisfied. Then she sobered.

"You really didn't know about the text? Who sent it?"

He sighed and thumped his head back on the wall.

"I think I probably did. I got shit faced the day before, and Natasha always erases my messages after that. I didn't think twice about it."

She nodded. "Maybe you should talk to her, see if she knows anything."

He was about to answer, when someone cut him off.

"Talk to who? Know what?"

Clint simply turned his head around, but Darcy reacted far more quickly. Suddenly she was back to being seated on the bed, and there were two electrodes where Natasha's chest had been a second earlier. The only reason the spy wasn't twitching on the floor like any normal person was her training. The both of them were staring at her, and she was biting her lip guiltily.

Natasha sent a look at Clint, asking him whether or not she should dispose of the threat. Darcy sent a look at Clint, asking him to defend her, because she used her weapon. Clint simply stared at the scene. Finally he waved a lax hand at Natasha. The red head relaxed immediately, but sent a curious look at Darcy. Clint took it on the younger woman who looked terrified.

"Natasha, this is Darcy Coulson. Darcy, this is Natasha Romanov."

Natasha raised a single eyebrow, eyes not leaving the brunette's face.

"Lewis."

They both stared at her, but Clint was the one to speak, Darcy not entirely convinced she wasn't going to die.

"What?"

"Her name is Darcy Lewis."

Clint glared at Natasha, insulted.

"You knew about her? You knew Coulson had a daughter?"

She finally looked at him, and her look clearly said 'Of course I did, what kind of spy you think I am?' Clint didn't dignify the look with an answer, and looked back at Darcy.

"Don't worry, she won't touch you."

Natasha was now tired of the pleasantries, and walked to Clint to hit him on the shoulder, eyes inquisitor.

"Talk to who to know what?"

Clint grimaced at her.

"Talk to you about the text you apparently erased from my phone. You know the one where I confessed my undying love to Coulson."

Darcy piped in.

"I don't think the undying part was mentioned."

Clint didn't even look at her, instead staring at Natasha who had an expression Clint didn't remember ever seeing on her face. Guilt. She whispered her answer, though her gaze was even.

"You would have panicked about it. I didn't think he would take it seriously. I tried to stop you from sending it."

Clint groaned, and let his head fall back on the wall with an audible thump. Darcy frowned at that.

"You know what? Tomorrow we're going to talk about a way to get you with my father. Tonight though, I'm taking your phone, and we're going out."

Clint looked at her, disbelieving.

"You're going to get me drunk. After what happened last time?"

Natasha was looking amused at Darcy. She found it entertaining that someone else was manhandling Clint and was getting away with it. The archer couldn't help but like the spunky girl, and not just because she was related to Coulson. Darcy shrugged, somehow bouncing on the hard mattress.

"Yeah, that's why I'm taking your phone. Come on, let's go. Agent Romanov, please lead the way. I don't any good places around here."

The red head smiled slightly, and slid her arms around Darcy's.

"Call me Natasha."

Darcy beamed at her, and they exited the small room that was really getting cramped. Clint trailed just behind them.

"How awesome is that? I'm on first name basis with two Super Agents!"

Clint smiled at her.

"Just two?"

She shrugged, supremely unconcerned.

"Well yeah, since Dad obviously doesn't count. Hill forbade anyone else to get cozy with me. Said I needed to learn respect or something like that."

Clint chuckled under his breath. Darcy had a way of lightening him up. Maybe if he talked to her father while she was there he'd be able to get somewhere. Maybe.

Natasha led them to the parking lot and slid in the driver's seat of her own car. Darcy took shotgun, which left Clint alone in the back, leaning in between them to look at Darcy.

"Why are you so keen to get me drunk anyway?"

She smiled sweetly at him.

"Well, to get you to spill a few secrets to incorporate in my master plan. Maybe get some good blackmail material to make sure you don't chicken out. And hungover dudes are so easy to get where you want them to be."

Clint stared at her for a long while, mouth hanging open.

"You're pure evil."

Her smile didn't waver, and he was pretty sure he saw Natasha's mouth twitch up.

"So I've been told."

"No, seriously, you are a horrible person."

She laughed.

"I know. It keeps me awake at night."

Clint simply snickered in answer, and let himself sit back in his seat.

OOOOOOO

He didn't recall much of the evening, simply that Darcy was a fearsome guard dog, and that all the requests he made for his phone were forcefully rejected. He was also pretty sure he babbled, but he was bound to do that when he was drunk.

He did know she went back with him to his place, and that he fell asleep in her lap while she was watching some trash show she seemed to like. He wondered briefly if it was weird to be so touchy feely with Coulson's daughter, but she didn't seem to mind, and he certainly wasn't complaining.

He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

**A/N: Here is the proof that I am apparently totally unable to write a fic without throwing Darcy in it in any way. She's just that awesome. I'd also take that moment to flail a bit about the fact that **_**Darcy is coming back in Thor 2! **_**Sorry. It had to be said.**

**On an unrelated note, I feel people are losing interest in this piece! Please tell me what's wrong, so that I can fix it! Please. I'm making Puss in Boot eyes at the moment. Just so you know.**


	7. You're gone, gone, gone

Clint groaned again as he woke up. He really should stop drinking for a while, he thought groggily. Hangovers were getting old real quick. He tried to remember what happened this time; he was pretty sure even he wasn't stupid enough to let Tasha rope him in twice in a week. His liver wouldn't survive it.

But he was getting flashes of dark brown hair with dark red lips and easy smiles. Ah. Yes. Darcy. Coulson's daughter. He hoped he hadn't been too insufferable, as Natasha often told him he was. She seemed to like him well enough before that. Except for the part where she resented him for causing pain to her father.

He went to get up, the song of coffee calling him to the kitchen. Only when he rolled down to fall on the floor did he realize he wasn't in his bed. He sat up, eyes barely opened, rubbing his head groggily.

He was in his living room, facing his TV. The sun was peeking through the closed drapes, so he had slept relatively late, though he didn't know at what time he had gotten back to his place. What he didn't understand was why he had been sleeping on the couch. He usually was sober enough by the time he reached his door to go and crash on his bed.

On top of everything, he could see a pillow where his head had been, and he had brought down a quilt that was wrapped around his legs. He definitely wouldn't have taken those if he hadn't had enough energy to get to his room.

He heard someone move in the kitchen, and he tried to get into a fighting stance. Darcy's head popped in the doorway, smiling widely at him. She had removed her make up, and was looking younger than yesterday. Her bouncy hair was tied in a loose bun, and she was wearing a shirt he was pretty sure was his.

She skipped to him and he let himself relax with a pained grunt. She grabbed a glass of water and some pills that she handed to him without a word. He nodded in thanks and gulped down both of them right away. She grinned calmly and ruffled his hair before jumping back to the kitchen.

Clint could see how much she wanted to talk, but was considerate of his headache. He took a few deep breaths, trying to will himself to move. He smelled coffee, but his lightning fast reaction to Darcy's appearance had drained what little fuel he had. He closed his eyes, and after a few minutes, he felt a light smack at the back of his head. He turned toward Darcy who was looking down at him, hands on her hips. He stared at her.

"Did you just hit me with a wooden spoon?"

She rolled her eyes at him.

"Yeah, I did, Sleeping Beauty. Now, get your ass moving because there's no way I'm carrying you to the kitchen and you need to fatten up."

He stared at her some more, but he finally got up, and tried to get to the kitchen without hurting himself. In spite of her talk, Darcy hovered just beside him, ready to catch him if he fell. He smiled at her just as he reached the table, and let himself fall into the closest chair. Darcy went back to play with something in the pan.

"I borrowed one of your shirts; I hope you don't mind, I didn't want to use mine, especially since I kinda have to wear it today."

He smiled at her from where he had laid his chin on his crossed arms. She continued to whirl around his kitchen as if it was her own, and kept on talking.

"You were completely gone on the couch, and I have pathetic upper body strength, so I left you there. I found a pillow and a quilt in the pantry; I hope you slept fine anyway. I stole your bed, because I wasn't anywhere drunk enough to sleep on the floor. Nice mattress! Do you think I could use your shower? I really could use it."

He chuckled weakly, and she turned around, smirking widely. "You just told me you slept in my bed and that you stink?"

She shrugged and grabbed his glass for a refill.

"Screw you, I don't stink, but my hair is greasy. You could use it too, though. You need it."

Clint frowned at her as she looked around for something. As she ignored the fridge, he guessed it was a plate.

"Right door, second shelf. Why do I need it?"

Darcy grabbed it and started piling pancakes on it. Clint was waiting for an answer, arching his eyebrow a bit more at each pastry she added to his plate. She beamed at him, dropping it in front of him.

"Because today is a big day, champ."

Clint frowned at her, and started inhaling his breakfast. Damn, that girl could cook. She took a moment to talk between two bites.

"You dragged my sorry ass back here, you tucked me in for the night, you cooked me breakfast and you are evil. If I wasn't gay and kind of in love with your father, I think I'd marry you, babe."

He took a bit and a moment to consider what she said. He gestured at her with his fork, spilling syrup over the table top.

"Why is it a big day, anyway?"

She beamed and ruffled his hair again to get to the pantry to take cereals out. He smiled at how natural she seemed to be.

"Because today you're winning your man, fledgling. And Aunty Darcy is going to help you with it."

Clint's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, as she finished setting her own meal, finally spooning some into her mouth.

"In light of my recent efforts, maybe it's not the best idea."

Darcy rolled her eyes at him, started to explain.

"Look, I snooped around, and from what I heard, all contact since the 'Incident', which amounted to a terrifying total of _two, _had been initiated by my father, right?"

Leaned back, thinking about it.

"Yeah, but who-"

She waved her hand at him dismissively, like this wasn't important to her, and that he shouldn't be bothered about it.

"People, Sitwell, others. Even Natasha was pretty talkative yesterday. That's not the point, though. So he always took control. And correct me if I'm wrong, but the whole problem about the 'Incident' was that you didn't have any control. You were drugged all the time, right?"

He cocked his head to the side, pondering what she said. Finally, he nodded tersely. She smiled kindly before swallowing and continuing.

"So, I believe, and you have every right to tell me I'm wrong, that if you were to take the initiative, It'd go better. I mean, you could do this."

Clint frowned and looked away, not convinced. Darcy kept silent, eating and letting him ponder what she said. His head was still pounding, but he barely noticed it. It wasn't important at the moment. An eternity later, he looked back at her.

"I'm not good at that kind of thing."

She smiled gently, and rose to wash their things.

"You don't need to be. He already likes you. You just have to tell him you like him back, and that you would like to go out with him. That's all."

Clint pursed his lips, and couldn't help but think it wasn't enough.

"I can't just walk up to him and tell him. It's... It's not good."

Darcy sighed and punched his shoulder lightly, knowing she would probably hurt herself more than him if there was any strength behind it. He looked at her as she put herself squarely in front of him.

"Yeah, after what, four years? It'd be pretty anti climatic. But honestly, the simpler we go, the better our chances are that it'll work. So you're going to man up and talk to him. Because if you wait until you've calmed enough to accept _him _taking the lead, you're both going to be old men, and it'd be sad if you never get to have hot sex with the other."

Clint pursed his lips at her.

"I thought you didn't want to think about it?"

She shrugged.

"I don't want to picture it, but it doesn't mean the unsatisfied libido he exudes isn't choking me."

Clint snorted and looked around at his apartment. Darcy walked to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He leaned into it.

"What does he like?"

Darcy hummed in question and leaned back to look at his profile. He shrugged a bit, not enough to upset her and make her move, though.

"I mean, if I have to do a boring declaration and make a fool of myself, I'd rather make sure the first date goes well. You know, so that he likes it."

Darcy sighed, and squeezed his shoulder.

"I don't really know. He never has time to date, so I couldn't tell you. But if I'd have to guess, keep it simple. He needs time to relax more than anything else."

Clint frowned, and turned slightly to look at her.

"But what did he do with your mother?"

Darcy snorted and let him go, walking around the small living room, picking up a paperback and riffling through it. Clint let her gather her thoughts.

"Nothing."

Clint frowned and turned his chair.

"Look, I know she died a while ago, but..."

Darcy whipped around, arms slashing through the air. She was frowning, biting her lip.

"They didn't do anything. I barely even remember them talking to each other. Most of the time, they ignored each other."

Clint frowned and leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Weren't they married?"

Darcy shrugged, wrapping her own arms around her waist.

"Yeah, but it was never... My father's parents were expecting something from him, and for most of his life he tried to give it to them. When he decided to accept S.H.I.E.L.D.'s offer, he wanted to mellow them by accepting to marry someone they considered _acceptable. _He like my mother well enough, and he hadn't anyone else in his sights, so he married her."

Clint raised his eyebrows, surprised that Coulson would bend to someone else's will on how he should deal with his life. Darcy was smiling wryly. He pressed on.

_"_But?"

She snorted mirthlessly.

"But my mother wed him thinking he would be someone high profile, someone glamorous, someone that would make her someone. When it became obvious she wouldn't have that, she lost interest. She distanced herself, and cheated on him. He didn't really care, but he was sorry that she let me alone. So she probably isn't an example you should follow."

Clint was taken by an urge he felt a bit too often in his life, the one to go and kill someone who was already dead. Who was that woman who dared to do that do Coulson? Who dared to do that to Darcy? He met her the day before, and he was pretty sure he would do a lot of unethical things to keep her safe, and she wasn't even his daughter.

"Bitch."

Darcy smirked at him.

"You won't find a lot of people to defend my mother around here. The only time I ever saw Hill angry at someone other than me, was the day she left. If I didn't know they wouldn't do that to Dad, I'd have checked to see if Fury had sent someone to take her out. But she apparently died of sheer stupidity. Got boozed and high and drove herself and her new boyfriend into a tree."

Darcy's voice was small at the end, and her eyes were downcast. Clint got up and hugged her. God forbid, he was turning into a Carebear, but Darcy was throwing an impressive amount of 'Poor Little Kitty' vibe. She sighed, and leaned into it, whispering into his shoulder.

"Take care of him. I need you to care of him, because I can't, and I hate it."

Clint swallowed.

"I don't think he'll let me."

She sighed.

"Of course he will. Because he's a big softy, and he likes to have someone paying attention to him."

Clint snorted, and she pushed an elbow into his ribs.

"Hey, fledgling. You're supposed to be the Big Badass guy, and you are hugging me at the moment."

He chuckled and released her. She took a small step back, looking up at him.

"You know why I was so angry yesterday?"

Clint frowned, and shook his head. She smiled ruefully.

"Because for a while now, I had hoped my father had finally found someone to have his back, when I couldn't. And he was hoping too. And then that had been taken away from him too."

Clint was staring at her.

"I don't need to be with him to have his back."

She laughed.

"I'm not talking about the field, _Agent Barton. _I know you're the best there is. But there is a limit to what colleagues can do for each other."

She marched to him and poked him in the pec with her forefinger.

"You are going to do this. It's going to work, and you're going to be happy. Are we clear on that?"

Clint opened his mouth, batting her hand away.

"Darcy-"

She slashed her finger in front of his eyes, and Clint wanted it to be noted that he didn't break it. He usually would have. He hated having things in front of his eyes that he didn't approve of. It cut into his line of sight.

"No 'Darcy'. That's what's going to happen and it's not up for discussion."

Clint stared at her through his lashes for a long time, and she defiantly looked back at him, jaw squared and determined. Clint sighed, and rubbed his eyes with his left hand, before looking back at her.

"For the record, I would like it to be noted that I'm doing this because I want to and of my own freewill, not because a pushy teenager forced me too."

She beamed at him and grabbed his arm.

"Awesome."

She pushed him into his bedroom.

"Now, you clean yourself up nice, and you come back here."

He went to close the door, and at the last minute, she slipped her shoed foot in.

"By the way, I'm twenty. Not a teenager anymore."

Then she skipped away. Clint huffed, and went to his bathroom.

This could work, right?

OOOOOOO

Darcy came with him to the HQ, in theory to get her things that she left in his quarters the day before. She was talking, but he only half listened, mind equally occupied with realizing just how bad this thing could go, because Coulson was really the kind of guy who wanted to take the reins, and Clint was always happy to let him do so. But he also imagined what he would do if it went well.

Against all odds.

He barely even remembered the drive, so used to it that his car probably knew the way by itself, and far too soon, he was pulling up in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s underground parking lot. Darcy sprung out of the passenger's seat and went to open his door, smiling widely and mercilessly. He frowned at her.

"Isn't the man supposed to open the cardoor?"

She rolled her eyes at him, and grabbed his forearm to pull him out.

"Don't be sexist, you overgrown chicken. Anyway..."

They stood an inch apart, her looking up at him. If it wasn't for her over-exaggerated saucy smile, he would have taken a step back.

"It's not like you'll be _my _man."

He smirked back in answer, and she skipped away. Was that girl ever calm? She was making him dizzy, hangover notwithstanding. He simply shook his head and followed her.

He entered, nodding to Agent Taves at the front desk, as the man stared at the both of them. She was in front of him, so he couldn't be sure, but if he understood anything about the young woman, she was batting wide innocent eyes at him and a blindingly friendly smile. The agent was frozen for a second, but he gathered himself when she went for the elevator. He stood from his chair, already opening his mouth to protest. Clint shut him up with a quick glare, leaving the man behind, lost and confused, mouth hanging open.

Poor little thing, he would try and erase the tapes afterward. The expression wasn't really to his advantage. Once they were in, Darcy turned around and waved cheerily at him. Taves started choking on his own saliva.

She turned to Clint, a bemused turn of her lips, as if weighing something she considered particularly funny.

"It's amazing that the one thing that never will fail to throw you SHIELD guys for a loop is being nice. Seriously. If we listened to you, everybody would have bitch faces all the time. That'd be pretty depressing."

Clint shrugged and nudged her shoulder with his.

"It's hard to stay cheerful with our job."

Darcy rolled her eyes and got out of the elevator on Coulson's office floor, marching to the office. Clint followed at a more sedated pace. He knew he had scrunched his shoulders up to his ears, but he couldn't care enough to relax and lower them. A young intern passed them by, and Clint scared her away with a single glance. Darcy looked at him briefly, and sighed. She grabbed his arm and looped her own around it.

"You look like you're going to the electric chair. Breathe. Relax! Don't you trust me?"

Clint stared at her for a long while.

"No?"

She rolled her eyes, and knocked on a door they both knew was Coulson's, but wasn't distinguished from the others by anything but a number. There wasn't any answer, and Darcy frowned, knocking again. Finally accepting it as empty, she turned around and grumbled.

"Of course the one fucking time he's not camping in here is the momentI'm looking for him. Typical. Really."

Clint smiled at her muttering, not particularly disappointed for the talk to be delayed. Maybe Coulson was even out on some mission or another, and he wouldn't see him for a few days.

What was he saying? He wanted to talk to Coulson. He needed to. He needed to know where he stood. And despite what he stated, he did trust Darcy. She knew her father, better than anyone else.

Darcy sighed, and grabbed his arm again. He humored her, knowing that if Coulson wasn't in his office, he could be just about anywhere in the country. She walked to the elevator.

"You know, I'm started to feel emasculated with the way you're dragging me around. Anyway, where are we going?"

She looked over her shoulder, glaring at him.

"We're finding him. No way you're getting out of this. Come on. Maybe Sitwell knows where he is."

Clint sighed.

"You know he might be on a mission?"

She shook her head.

"He's never sent out when I'm around. I taught Fury better than that. Don't worry."

He snorted, because the thought of what Darcy did to the director to 'Teach him better' was hilarious. Maybe he judged her a bit too quick when he considered her harmless. He should have known Coulson's daughter's appearance would be deceiving.

Suddenly, as they were passing a small employee's room on their way to Sitwell's office, they heard Hill's voice. They stopped just in time to hear Coulson answer. The door was open just a slit, enough for them to hear, but not enough for them to see or be seen.

"Your last operation was a success, Sitwell."

They couldn't see, but they both knew the other agent probably simply shrugged with a small satisfied smile quirking his lips upward.

"Thank you. On a not completely unrelated subject, you seem to be in a good mood lately."

Clint smiled at the way Sitwell ignored the usual stunted innuendos that filled the usual office talk. He never could figure out if the man was really oblivious or didn't care, but either way it made him a much more agreeable guy to talk to than most people. Coulson answered calmly.

"Darcy's around."

Sitwell 'ahhed', and his voice was a touch amused when he answered.

"Really, when did she arrive? I haven't seen the little devil yet!"

Hill sighed.

"Thank god, things are finally going more or less smoothly, and we don't need her to start another prank war."

Clint threw an amused look at Darcy who sported her big innocent eyes again. He rolled his eyes at her. The two men inside ignored Hill's remark, and Coulson answered Sitwell serenely.

"She came yesterday, but I'm not sure what she's been up to exactly. She slept out. I haven't see her yet."

Hill huffed, and presumably walked around to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"Anyhow, it's not like it's the only reason the terrible Agent Coulson has loosened up a bit."

Coulson didn't answer, but Sitwell didn't stop himself, his voice curious.

"What? What else?"

Hill sounded very happy, but Darcy was frowned, not understanding what the agent was getting at.

"Come on, Coulson, have you at least told Darcy?"

Coulson's voice was nearly frigid was he answered, voice cutting and hard.

"I don't see how it is any of your business."

Sitwell didn't catch the hint, unsurprisingly.

"Told what?"

Hill's voice was smug at having one over Coulson, and let the rest fall.

"About the cellist? Haven't you heard? Someday, Coulson, you'll have to tell me how you kept that one out of the rumor mill."

Clint was frozen. Ice was flooding through his veins, and he could barely breathe. Darcy was looking at him, mouth opened, eyes horrified. He wanted to run away, to forget about everything he had heard, to tell himself it was all just a misunderstanding.

But he couldn't move. He couldn't run, he couldn't walk, he couldn't even creep away. He was stuck there, like a fly in amber.

Sitwell turned to Coulson.

"You're seeing someone?"

Coulson cleared his throat awkwardly, shuffling on his feet.

"Yes. A cellist."

Clint felt his heart break. No. He lost his chance. He lost Coulson. Coulson was seeing someone else.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get closer to Coulson._

Darcy was looking between him and the door, and she pinched her lips. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders, and led him away, away from the door, away from Coulson, and Sitwell, and Hill, and all the people that would look at him and see everything in his face.

She stuffed him into an empty office. He felt to the floor, sitting and taking his head into his hands.

He lost Coulson. Coulson didn't love him. Coulson didn't like him. Coulson was with someone else.

He wouldn't have Coulson. He dry sobbed, and Darcy fell in front of him, eyes sad and apologetic.

"Clint?"

He shook his head and refused to look up. He couldn't. He couldn't cry. Not again. Not over something like that. He wasn't that weak. He wasn't that pathetic.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get closer to Coulson._

He didn't betray you, you were never together. And of course, he's going with someone else. She's probably playing in an orchestra or something like that. So much better than the jack booted thug that was Clint.

"Clint, listen to me."

He shook his head again, but she wasn't having it. She grabbed his chin again, and forced his head up.

"Clint. Please. I'm so sorry."

He swallowed, but didn't try to look away again.

"Not your fault."

Her expression was tightened, and she looked like _she _was about to cry. He couldn't take that. He couldn't take her disappointment on top of his own. He couldn't. He turned his head to the left.

"I have to go."

She frowned, mouth hanging open.

"Clint?"

He shook his head once more, trying to clear it, to sort his ideas.

"I have to go."

He jumped to his feet, going for the door. She stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

"Wait, for two seconds."

He paused, and looked as she rummaged through her pockets and purse. She managed to find a piece of paper and a pen. She scribbled a phone number on it, which she handed to him. He took it gingerly, looking at her.

"It's mine. If you ever need to talk."

He nodded, and went to walk away, when she launched herself at him, hugging the daylights out of him.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Finally she let him go, and he walked away. He climbed the stairs up to the top level, and marched straight into Fury's office, Darcy's number still scrunched in his tight fist.

Fury looked up in surprise at him, single eye wide. He wasn't often surprised, and Clint didn't even dare to picture what he must look like. Probably somewhere between devastated, blind with anger and lost.

"What can I do for you, Agent Barton?"

Clint straightened his back and tightened his jaw.

"I would like a long term assignment."

Fury frowned at him and went to protest, probably about tests and evaluations, but Clint cut him off.

"Please, Sir."

Fury stared at him for a long while, but finally nodded.

"Report at the helipad tomorrow at 0900. I'll have something for you."

Clint nodded.

"Thank you, sir."

He nodded, and Clint turned around. He exited the building, and just as he arrived at his car, he looked at the piece of paper Darcy had given him. He stared at it for a long time.

Coulson's daughter.

_Coulson hurt him. Coulson betrayed him. He had to get-_

He shook his head and slipped the note into his pocket.

And he was out.

**A/N: I'm sorry for the delay, the next chapters should come in a more timely fashion!**

**I wanted to thank every single of you for the love you gave me following the next chapter. You have no idea how much it means! For those who worried, I never intended to stop the story, as it is already completed, but I wanted to know if I should change somethings!**

**Thank you again!**


	8. Is he standing in my room?

For eleven months Clint ran around Europe, chasing and infiltrating an important terrorist cell. He worked by himself, no backup, no intel, no nothing. It was as if he was back to his mercenary days, but with the reassurance that he was doing what was right.

He was in England for the moment, waiting for a meeting with one of the head of the organization. Clint, or Ronin, as they called him, was playing a goon, a hired bodyguard. He wasn't enjoying bowing and obeying to the slimy looser that hired him, but it got him where he wanted.

It was late at night, and he should have been sleeping, but instead he was sitting cross- legged on his bed. He had to get up early the next day; the meeting took place at 8 in the morning, and he had to be at the top of his game, but at the moment, he was staring at his phone. There was a message blinking on it.

He couldn't keep a phone for long, obviously, and he switched every other week, but every time, he found himself sending his new number to Darcy. The woman never tried to get information from him, she knew better than that; she was raised better than that. But she sent him inane things, funny quotes, ridiculous parts of her life. It helped him, on the worst nights, to remind himself that real life, real innocent people still existed somewhere.

Because the bastards he lived with for the last year were working very hard on destroying any faith in humanity he had managed to gain back while working with S.H.I.E.L.D. a lot of the time he wanted to do nothing more than to put a knife, a bullet, an arrow through their throats.

He wanted it so bad sometimes he clenched his fists hard enough to draw blood with his blunted nails. Sometimes he wanted to lose himself. To lose S.H.I.E.L.D.

But he couldn't. Every time he considered it, there was the calm, composed voice in his ear again. Not even remotely like the real one, because he wasn't able to recall Coulson's voice perfectly, not after so much time apart, not after he spent so much time trying to forget about it. However it was always enough, enough to remind him why he was doing this. Why he had asked for this job, and why he had to stay loyal to S.H.I.E.L.D.

Because no matter how Madam fucked with his head, no matter that Coulson had a girlfriend and didn't care about him like he cared about him, no matter he hadn't seen him in eleven months, he still loved him. And he was still a pathetic person.

So he kept communicating with Darcy, because he needed a link, a line in his life. And Darcy could do that. He never called her, she never called him; it was too dangerous, but they texted often.

She wished him a happy birthday about two months ago, and Clint hadn't asked how she knew. The only persons who knew that were Coulson and Natasha. Since he wasn't technically supposed to be in contact with anyone, he doubted Darcy would have asked her father, so it had to be Natasha.

He hadn't seen the spy either, yet, which meant she was angry at him for not telling her he was going away and understanding that he needed space. He did miss her, but neck deep in his mission as he was, having her around was too much of a risk.

Darcy was a pretty good replacement, though. She had a knack for sending a message at the right time that never failed to boost him up a bit, like tonight. Clint was still looking at the phone, hesitant to open it. Not that he didn't want to talk to Darcy, but if he did, he wouldn't sleep for a long, long time. And as much as he wanted to avoid it, he needed to rest.

He sighed, and dropped the phone on his night table. Darcy could wait twelve hours. He went to his small bathroom to pee one last time. As he lay in bed, he caught sight of the phone again. His hand rose to take it, but he clenched his fingers into a fist.

Be strong, Barton. Job before fun. It had been his mantra for the last months. By the time he ended this, he would hopefully be able to interact with Coulson as platonic coworkers once more and Fury would owe him big, big enough that he would maybe be able to take real vacations. He'd seen a lot of places lately he would like to come back to and visit for his own pleasure.

And since he was still a pathetic person, when he closed his eyes, he couldn't help but picture himself with Coulson.

OOOOOOO

The first part of the morning was eventless and boring. Clint's 'boss' was trying to fool the Head he was talking to, and it was painfully obvious to the archer that the woman was perfectly aware of that fact. The poor bastard was going to get eaten alive. She had the air of a cat humoring a canary, and she would dispose of him when she didn't find him entertaining enough. Clint would have to move fast to attach himself to her before they ditched the loser and he found himself out of the loop again.

Despite his assurances the meeting wouldn't produce anything worthwhile for anyone, he still did his best to mentally record and store everything that was said. He couldn't predict when a tidbit of information could be useful to open doors or get out of tight corners. His eyes endlessly scanned the room back and forth like the good little guard dog he was, apparently ready to jump in front of any threat who would come before his master, but honestly he couldn't care less about was happened to the sleazy man.

He had been excited when he got the job, sure it would make him go far. The tall, fit man that called himself _Spades, _of all things, was from a rich and successful family, and Clint had thought he would extend the same flair to the illegal business. Turned out it wasn't a wonder how he had been kicked out of the family company. Underneath the agreeable appearance and charming smiles, Spades was nothing more than an arrogant imbecile. His only ace would have been his family name, but the idiot had advertised everywhere that they had disowned them.

For two months Clint had been stuck to his side, hoping for an opening, and now that he had it, he wasn't going to miss it. The woman, Milady-didn't that bring back bad memories -was apparently the left hand woman, the third person in rank in the organization. Thankfully, Clint had gotten completely over his traumatism, as far as he could tell, and the interested glances the woman was throwing his way seemed to indicate he had a chance.

He had to praise her poker face, though. It was as good as Fury's, and the director had the best fucking poker face Clint had ever seen when he bothered to put it on. It unsettled him a bit, but it wasn't unexpected. You didn't become a top criminal by wearing your heart on your sleeve, and Spades' company probably simply disused him to competent people.

The man kept his important documents under his mattress, and thought he was smooth. It was pathetic, and Clint had vast experience in that. He simply thanked his lucky stars that the man really was stupid, because evil as he was, if he had two functioning brain cells, they'd all be in great danger. The archer was glad he wouldn't have to be the one to terminate him. He hated terminating harmless people, as annoying and crude as they might be.

Around ten, Milady looked at her watch and asked for a break. They all agreed on fifteen minutes. Clint told the two other bodyguards he had to go to the toilet, and left them with Spades. He wanted to go and talk to Milady, and it would be his only chance to do it unsupervised. First, though, he really went to the bathroom.

Once in, he took it phone, trying to get to his tissue. Out of habit, he glanced at it, and frowned. To the one message Darcy sent him the day before, five others had been added. He opened it, and all of them were from Darcy. He felt dread rise in him as the back of his neck turned cold. Darcy never sent him more than a text every few days if he didn't answer, understanding that if he didn't texted her back he had a good reason.

Jaw tensed, he selected the last message sent, about an hour ago.

From: Darcy Lewis

To: Clint Barton

Get out of there. We're coming to get you.

He felt his shoulders tighten. There wasn't supposed to be any intervention from the base. If they decided to get him out, something was very wrong. He decided to open the other ones to see if there was anything else. He started from the one she sent him before he went to bed last night.

Clint, don't go to the meeting tomorrow. Base has bad feeling.

Clint's senses were hyperaware, jumping at every sound. The next text had been sent two hours after the first.

Clint, new intelligence. Call me. Please.

He quickly selected the one after.

Barton. Call. Now.

Clint was starting to panic. He forced the feeling down, it was useless. Whatever mess he had gotten himself into, he would have to get himself out. The fourth message was even more alarming.

Your cover is blown. Fuck everything and run.

Clint heart leapt to his throat, and he opened the last one, hoping it brought good news.

Fledgling. Please. Call me. Go away.

He sighed and slid the phone back into his pocket. Great, now his cover was blown, and not by Spades, who would have reacted right away. So Milady knew he wasn't clear, which meant Clint didn't have any chance of getting in, and all efforts he made for the last ten months were useless.

It also meant he had isolated himself from the only people who might-and even then it wasn't a sure thing-have defended him if it came to violence. He closed his eyes for a second, remembering the layout of the building. There was an exit door about two hallways down that wouldn't necessitate him to cross the meeting room. He had a chance to do this discreetly. As far as Milady knew, Clint had no contacts with anybody, no way to know she knew he was a spy.

Suddenly he heard footsteps in the hallway that led to the bathroom. He quickly started cleaning his hands, hoping it was simply another of Spades' guard dog coming to see what was holding him up. The man didn't want to negotiate without all his court around him. He said it made him more impressive.

Clint always thought it only made him look insecure and paranoid. He was straining his ear, when he heard a voice he didn't know call to someone else in Romanian. Clint sent a quick thanks to Natasha for her insistence on teaching him the basics of a lot of languages. He wasn't one hundred percent sure what was being said, but he knew enough to catch that it wasn't nice.

he knew he was in trouble. He drew out his gun, eyes alert and jaw tight. He waited for the two men- he only counted two sets of footsteps-to stand just in front of the door. He breathed in deep, and threw himself shoulder first into the door, which flew open. He felt it knock the first man down and hit the second one as well.

The archer ran as hard as he could, hoping to reach the corner before they got their footing. He dived just as shots started to ring. He waited for them to calm down, and threw his arm around, firing two shots. He heard the two answering grunts, indicating-unsurprisingly-that he hit his target. He got back to his feet and ran to the door. He barged out to a back alley, heart beating frantically, the world crystal around him.

Gotta love adrenaline.

He had taken two steps in when he saw a man dressed in black drive in. He started to break, but Clint didn't give him the chance, shooting him in the throat. He fell back, and Clint jumped toward the bike, straddling it swiftly.

The archer's shoulders were taunt. He was wearing a vest, but had no other protection, nor any other weapon than his hand gun. He felt terribly exposed, and he hoped the reinforcements Darcy talked about wouldn't take too long. If his intel was right, and it was, Milady disposed of enormous means. As goof of an agent as he was, he couldn't fight an entire criminal organization by himself. He could hide for a while, but that would mean losing his tail.

Since three cars just appeared out of nowhere behind him, nearly knocking a scooter off the road while doing so, he would have to bring out his A game. He pinched his lips together and started weaving through the traffic, ducking around cabs and bypassing bicycles. The cars still followed him, not caring about hurting civilians.

Clint had to get them away from the main road. He took a small alley, narrow enough they would have to slow down to not run into each other. He exited into another street that he honestly couldn't distinguish from the previous one. He had never been in London before; apparently England could handle herself and didn't need S.H.I.E.L.D. With his job, he hadn't had time to do a lot of sightseeing either.

Until he had another, better idea, he would have to do with driving around, hoping not to cause too many casualties. Citizens were staring at him, and he heard sirens far away. Great, police was coming. Honestly, he wasn't sure they would be able to help him in any way whatsoever. Cops had a way of complicating things, especially since he had no way to prove he was one of the good guys.

Come on, S.H.I.E.L.D., move your ass. He needed back up here.

He cut in a side way, hoping to find an underground parking, or something similar. Those kind of things were perfect to lose a tail. However, he found himself facing a black car. Two men got out, and drew their guns. Clint swore, and jumped quickly, kicking his bike into the car. The explosion took them both out. Sadly, it also took out his possible exit chance.

The cars that were following him caught up with him, and Clint flipped back upright. The archer looked frantically around, but he couldn't find anything to help himself. He would have considered jumping over the flaming car, but he saw others pulling up before.

Goddamnit, how many more would there be before S.H.I.E.L.D. showed their pretty faces?

Clint took his guns out one last time, intent on bringing as many down with him as he could. He shot three of them, but there was more coming, and he was going to be out of bullets soon.

Suddenly, a sharp pain flared through his thigh. He looked down, and sure enough, one of the bastards had hit him. Clint growled, and shot again, only to feel another impact on his chest. The vest made sure it didn't actually pierce him, but it still hurt and promised deeply purple bruising tomorrow. He clenched his fists. That was the problem with Kevlar vests; if the bad guy is paying attention, he usually notices pretty quickly you're wearing it.

The next shot was through his other shin, and he narrowly avoided the one aimed at his head by throwing himself at the ground. He could feel his blood spill around him, and he was getting dizzy. He tried to get to his feet, but he stumbled down, both because the world was spinning around him, and because of the excruciating pain in both his legs.

After everything, he was going to die in an alley from bullet wounds., he was going to haunt whoever snitched on him for the rest of his days. Seriously. He should have died in a big explosion, after having saved the lives of countless innocent civilians. He would have had a grand funeral, where Coulson would have declared his undying love to him-shut up-and Natasha and Darcy would have cried themselves dry.

Instead he got the alley. He really wanted to call bullshit.

He heard another shot, and braced himself for the pain. Hopefully, it would be in the head, to end this ridiculous farce as soon as possible.

However, nothing happened. Clint remained on the ground, with only two holes in him. He raised his head, and saw a flash of red hair.

"Natasha..."

She turned her head briefly, and he saw a flash of fear and worry in her eyes before she had to turn around again to knock a guy down with a roundhouse kick. Suddenly, there was a hand on his shoulder, and Clint jerked away. Well, wobbled away, because that was about the range of movement he could accomplish at the moment.

"Barton!"

His eyes flew open. He didn't even know he had closed them. He knew that voice. He slurred a weak reply.

"Sir?"

Coulson tried to shake him, to make him focus, but Clint couldn't. His head was too fuzzy. Like cotton candy. He had cotton candy in his head. Coulson's voice was growing frantic.

"Barton, stay awake. Barton! Clint! Clint, stay with me. Talk to me."

Clint opened his mouth, he tried, he really did, because if he didn't do as Coulson said, Coulson would be disappointed, and Clint really didn't want to disappoint Coulson. He always felt sick when he disappointed Coulson.

And Darcy would break his kneecaps. He closed his eyes, and felt himself slip away. He mumbled just as he finally let go.

"S'rry, s'r."

And then there was nothing but darkness.

OOOOOOOOO

When Clint came back to himself, he felt he could cry. Not simply because he actually _came back to himself, _which meant that hey, he didn't die in an alley in London, but mostly because he could recognize the smell of the room anywhere. Blood, antiseptic and a subtle undertone of cedar smoke that they had never been able to scrub off the walls, ever since that nutjob of an R&D employee blew a harmless bomb there a few years back.

He was in medical. In fact, to be perfectly clear, he was in S.H.I.E.L.D.'s medical. He was dully in pain, but it was too vague to pinpoint exactly where he was hurting. He tried to recall what had happened before he blacked out, hoping it'd inform him of his injuries.

He remembered the alley, the black cars and the guns, but for the life of him, he couldn't tell where he'd been shot. Or how he had been saved from that place. For him to loose consciousness so quickly, the bullet had to have nicked something important, which also meant that whoever got to play super hero with him must have been really close.

He frowned in frustration, and tried to raise his arm to scrub his eyes, when he felt something stop him short. Oh goddamnit. They restrained him again. Seriously, this was getting old.

He opened his eyes, blinking against the harsh lights. He had to take nearly a minute to get used to it, and from experience it meant he had spent more time than he would have liked out of it.

When he finally got to look around, he paused at the figure slumped in the chair across the room, as far away as someone could be while still remaining in the room. The same position Hill had taken what seemed an eternity ago, after his kidnapping.

Coulson looked exhausted, skin pale and dark circles under his eyes. Clint pinched his lips; he didn't remember a time where Coulson hadn't looked like a strong wind could topple him over, and when he couldn't tell himself he had nothing to do with it.

The agent had a stack of papers in his lap, presumably reports, and his laptop was closed on the floor. Clint could see at least two cartons of coffee on the table next to him. He arched an eyebrow.

Coulson, being the awesome agent and ex-military soldier he was, started twitching under the weight of Clint's gaze. After about a minute, which was a proof of how tired he was, he blinked his eyes open. Slowly, he dragged them to where Clint lay, and froze when he realized the archer was looking at him.

His face was blank, but Clint detected the uncertainty and hesitation. The younger man swallowed and nodded, croaking as well as he could.

" 't's fine."

Coulson was automatically on his feet, and approach just slow enough not to seem over bearing. He reached Clint's side, and lightly slid an ice chip between his lips. The archer greedily sucked on it, opening his mouth as soon as he was done, asking for another one.

Clint saw something in Coulson's eyes relax; a worry, a concern that was smoothed away by Clint's calm acceptance of his presence. A tightness that had knotted his shoulders ever since the archer came back from Madam's clutches. Clint felt himself relax the same way, proud of himself for once. He could do this.

Coulson continued feeding the other agent chips until Clint's throat didn't feel like sandpaper anymore. He settled back on the cushions as Coulson raised the bed.

Clint took a few breaths before muttering, because he didn't feel himself strong enough to do much else.

"Sir."

Coulson took the chair he had slept in, and slid it near the bed, level with Barton's hip.

"Agent Barton. It's good to see you back with us."

The archer chuckled wearily. Yeah, it was good to be back.

"What happened?"

The other agent sighed and looked away.

"The day before your meeting with Milady, we caught a communication from S.H.I.E.L.D. betraying your identity to an unknown individual. We suspected it would put you in danger, and tried to find a way to contact you until Agent Romanov indicated she knew someone who could."

Coulson stared levelly at him, indicated him they would have words later about keeping in touch with a civilian- his daughter of all people, when on an undercover mission.

"So we sent you a message, and focused on identifying the traitor. When it was done, we had confirmed that your cover had indeed been blown, and that you also hadn't answered Darcy's text. We decided to dispatch a team to extract you, since there was apparently no way to salvage the operation."

Coulson's eyes lit up in the way that meant that the traitor would pay for what he did. Clint's heart warmed a bit at seeing that his handler was still protective of him.

"By the time we got to you, you were leading an impressive, merry chase, and got yourself cornered. We managed to take all of your enemies out, but not before you were shot in both your legs. One of the bullets nicked your left thigh's artery. You passed out due to blood loss just as I got to you."

Coulson's hands were fisted so tight the knuckles were pearly white. Clint wanted to reach over to smooth them, but first he was still tied to the bed, and second, well, it was still Coulson, and he had no way to justify that particular course of action.

"Hmm, could you please...?"

Coulson frowned until Clint jerked his chin toward his wrists, and the agent's eyes widened when he realized his agent was indeed still bound to the bed.

"Ah, yes of course."

He quickly undid them, and the archer started rubbing, getting his circulation back. They hadn't been very tight, so it wasn't too bad.

"Thanks. How am I?"

Coulson pursed his lips.

"You were patched up and received transfusions. The doctors want to keep you for a while longer; make sure you don't overexert yourself. Your wounds are healing up nicely, and have been stitched up. Now it's only a matter of not tearing them back open."

He sent a severe look at Clint, which the other agent took as a 'you better not tear them open' and for the moment, he was all inclined to obey the senior agent. In fact at the moment, he was so damn happy from the drugs and from having his first real, normal conversation with Coulson for almost a year that he would do pretty much anything to keep the other man satisfied.

"Sir, yes sir."

Coulson rolled his eyes at him and Clint couldn't help but grin.

"How long have I been here?"

Coulson raised an eyebrow.

"Four days."

Clint rolled his head limply to take a good look at Coulson, his faint stubble and his wrinkled suit.

"How long have _you_ been here, sir?"

Coulson cleared his throat and looked away. His answer was so faint Clint almost missed it.

"Four days."

Clint's eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline, and then he narrowed his eyes at Coulson, trying to will the truth out of the man with only the strength of his gaze. The older agent's eyes snapped back to his and didn't waver. His stare was calm and strong. Clint swallowed.

"What about the cellist, sir?"

Coulson automatically frowned, confused and apprehensive.

"The cellist?"

Clint tried to shrug, as if it wasn't important. As if his heart hadn't just inflated five sizes at the fact Coulson didn't seem to know what he was talking about.

"Yeah, the girl you were seeing. Or the guy, I don't think you said. What about it?"

Coulson's mouth opened, and snapped close, and opened again.

"There was no-"

He stopped himself and sighed, rubbing one hand warily over his jaw. Clint simply stared at him, hanging on his every word.

"There was never a cellist, Barton."

The archer's heart started doing happy backflips in his chest, but he couldn't just leave it like that. He had to be sure.

"But you told Hill. And Sitwell."

Coulson smiled ruefully, hands clenching and unclenching in his lap.

"Hill has been trying to match me with her younger sister since about two weeks after we met. I simply wanted her to leave my love life alone. I wasn't planning on her telling Sitwell about it."

Well, that did explain why Darcy hadn't heard about it.

"Why a cellist? You have a kink about musicians, sir?"

Clint desperately hoped not, because he was hopeless with music instrument. He had to get replaced by another agent for an op where he was supposed to pose as a musician.

Coulson simply chuckled.

"No, not really. I did date a cellist in high school, so it's the first thing that came to my mind."

Clint did his best not to beam like a damn goofball, because that wouldn't be the most discreet thing in the world. He decided to switch subject, wanting to analyze this conversation when his head was a bit clearer. He didn't feel any drugs in his system, but it would have been surprising if his only wounds had been gun shots, and it _had_ been four days. On the other end, he had just spent four days either asleep or unconscious, and his brain was still a bit sluggish.

He looked down at his legs.

"What about the mission, sir?"

Coulson pursed his lips, and looked away.

"The information you sent us along the way was interesting, but we aren't sure we'll be able to actually use it, since we haven't been able to get into the organization, and probably won't be able for a while. They will be extra cautious in the future."

Clint swore loudly, not caring that Coulson was just beside him. The agent had heard far worst from him, for worse reasons.

"So all this work for nothing? Ten months of efforts down the drain."

Coulson nodded, looking as frustrated as Clint felt.

"Sorry Barton."

The archer pursed his lips and let out an heavy sigh that morphed into an impressive yawn. Coulson's lips twitched upward.

"Go back to sleep, Barton."

He rose from his chair and went for the door, but seemed to change his mind half way. He walked back to the head of the bed, and looked Clint straight in the eyes.

"Two last things I would like to clarify. First, no matter how close you are with my daughter, you will never ever mix her up with S.H.I.E.L.D. ever again. I don't care how many times she claims she just saved your life. She stays away."

Clint nodded; it made sense. And he wasn't about to argue with Coulson when he was in a mother hen mood. He left that to Darcy. At Clint's approval, Coulson leaned a bit forward.

"Second, if you ever request or get sent on another op without consulting me beforehand, I won't care if you got the authorization from Fury or the President or the WSC, I will go after you and bring you back. Clear?"

Clint was speechless, but managed a gob smacked nod. Coulson's lips curled into a small satisfied smile, and he left for good.

Coulson had just admitted he would ditch all the chain of command he cherished to make sure Clint was safe.

Coulson said he would ditch everything to have Clint's back.

Clint melted into the pillows with a small happy smile on his lips.

Things were finally looking up.

**A/N: Here is my Christmas gift-a day late- to all of you! Things are finally looking up!**

**Merry Christmas and Happy New Year if I don't post another one before then!**


	9. Could you stay, my love?

Clint was released from medical two days later, with orders to at least report to Coulson once a day so that the agent could make sure he was doing all right. Clint didn't consider that a hardship in any way, and happily did so.

In fact, he split his days between the range, and getting reacquainted with his bow, after having spent nearly a year without regular practice. Sure a few times he had slipped away to an archery club to center himself, but it wasn't a regular thing, and he missed his baby. The rest of the time he spent in Coulson's office, either sleeping if the other agent wasn't there, or making a nuisance of himself if he was. The agent never complained, even jokingly like he used to, and Clint suspected the he was simply happy things were back to normal, or what the both of them considered normal anyhow. The archer sometimes wondered how long the 'honeymoon' stage/phase would last, because he was enjoying it. On the other hand, he always liked to be able to draw the fondly exasperated looks from his handler.

He hadn't had the chance to talk to Natasha yet; she'd been sent away while he was still unconscious to seduce one crime lord or another. Clint missed her a lot, and wanted to discuss his mission with her. Undercover wasn't his strength, and she was always able to give him pointers on how he could have handled one situation or another.

He had gotten his phone back though, and he spent most of his time texting with Darcy. Coulson had asked him to please not disturb her while she was studying. Clint tried, but that lasted for about three hours, until Darcy understood what was going on, and started texting everyone whose number she had that worked at S.H.I.E.L.D.-and the amount was quite surprising-to get back at her father. From that moment on Coulson had stopped commenting upon the texting, but would send mildly disapproving looks at Clint when he knew he was texting Darcy. The archer's only response was an impish grin, to which the older agent barely answered by a roll of his eyes.

Clint was settling in back at S.H.I.E.L.D. and was feeling more comfortable than ever. The only incident happened just two days after he left the infirmary. He was lying on Coulson's couch, throwing pushpins at the wall, trying to draw S.H.I.E.L.D.'s eagle. He was nearly done with the left wing. Coulson, without ever lifting his head, spoke calmly.

"At the very least, Barton, make sure the colors match. And no yellow."

Clint laughed freely, and sent Coulson a joyous "Sir, yes sir!" and proceeded to continue the logo with the blue, red, and white pins he had started with. This way it would go well with the Captain America poster that decorated the wall behind the desk. For a moment, he forgot the door was open, and that everybody could hear them. Though honestly, he couldn't have cared less. Let them know; if he had his way, he and Coulson would be a thing by the end of the month. But just as he said it, an agent slipped in the office. Normally Clint would have barely spared him a glance, at least until he said something stupid. However, Clint did a double take this time, because he knew this guy and felt his jaw clench. Coulson saw the tell, but couldn't understand. Because that was the guy Clint overheard at the coffee machine long ago, the one that pushed him to try and have sex with Natasha. The one that called him Coulson's bitch.

He gave something to Coulson without a word, but as he went out, he cast a look at Clint, a look of disdain and mockery and condescension. Clint felt his skin crawl. When he finally exited, Coulson turned to Clint, a slight frown in place.

"Barton?"

Clint didn't answer, and jumped to his feet, intent on following the other agent. Coulson insisted.

"Barton."

Clint smirked at him over his shoulder.

"See you in a few, sir. Don't worry, I'll finish it later."

Coulson didn't answer; nor did he comment when the guy came back later, completely covered in glitter, the kind that Clint knew from experience would take weeks to disappear completely, to rant about how Hawkeye had assaulted him. Coulson simply looked at him and stated it was impossible since Barton had remained in his office all day. The stupid dude snickered in reply.

"Yeah, I guess he wouldn't want to do anything else than to lie at his master's feet like the good little dog he is."

Clint was proud of himself, that he didn't try to attack the asshole, but Coulson calmly indicated, in his quietest and deadliest voice, that he should remove himself from the office. Apparently the bastard had a self-preservation instinct buried somewhere deep, and ran away.

Coulson went back to his paperwork, and Clint started working on the bird's beak. It was always the hardest part. Coulson muttered, a few minutes later.

"You don't have to stay here."

Clint shot him a glance.

"I want to be here."

Coulson stared at him, looking like he might want to add something, but in the end, he nodded and went back to whatever report he was filling. Clint smiled at this, and settled himself more comfortably.

OOOOOOOO

About a week after he woke up, Coulson was called out. Even away from S.H.I.E.L.D. as he was, he had heard about the disappearance of the billionaire Tony Stark. He found it hilarious that said billionaire would be found at about the same time S.H.I.E.L.D. retrieved him from London.

He had followed the rest of the events from Coulson's office, the older agent always ready to give him a summary of what had happened lately in exchange for Clint's thoughts on the matter. Phil had to go a first time when Tony Stark held his first press conference, when he was barely out of the plane. Clint smiled at the genius' antics until he announced the cease of all weapons manufacturing from Stark Industries. Clint was surprised, and he knew Stark would lose a lot of friends in the future. The division was fairly self-sufficient when it came to weapons, and R&D was pretty good, having operated by themselves since Howard Stark's death. The army, however, relied heavily on those weapons. Clint hoped Stark had the balls to hold onto his position.

Phil came back the same day, having an appointment four days later with Miss Potts and Tony Stark. Clint's handler was wary of the consequences of Stark's actions. When the Iron Man first appeared, Coulson was immediately shipped back and Clint was bound to spend the next few days alone.

Of course Stark had to act up around Thanksgiving. Having no family never weighted on Clint as much as when he had to spend an holiday alone, when the HQ was almost empty.

He should have known Coulson had considered it. On the first morning of the break, Clint was lying in bed, trying to get back to sleep. If he started to watch movies right away, it would be a long weekend. Suddenly, his door opened, and a quirky voice rang through the small room.

"Rise and shine, sweetheart!"

He propped himself up on one forearm, rubbing and blinking his eyes a few times to confirm that yes, there was indeed a college student in his room.

Darcy simply stood there, a smile stretching her lips, hands stuffed into her pockets. Clint wasn't fooled by her big innocent eyes. He did jump up and crowed.

"Darcy!"

She beamed at him in return, and jumped into his arms, giggling madly. Really, in the course of the last year and through unlimited texts, Darcy became somewhat of a little sister. He took her up, and dumped her on his bed.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Darcy chuckled and shoved his shoulder away. Clint humored her, letting himself drop on the bed. She settled herself cross legged on the bed.

"Well, I'm thrilled to see you again, too."

Clint smiled at her, not inclined to rise just yet.

"No, but seriously, why are you here? I thought your father wanted to keep you away from this place."

She rolled her eyes, and poked him in the ribs with her pointed nails.

"First, I want to have it noted that my father doesn't rule my entire life. Second, said father also ditched me for Thanksgiving to go meet Tony Stark, which is _not _okay. Because I would be so much better at dealing with Tony _Fucking _Stark. And because it's Thanksgiving. If I can't spend it with my father I'll take the next best thing."

She flopped, boneless, on the bed so that her head rested on his chest.

"My future daddy in law."

Clint groaned and swatted her lightly on the shoulder. She giggled in answer, wriggling a bit to find a comfortable position.

"Please, promise me you won't call me Dad."

She laughed.

"No, of course not. I've already got a Dad. I might settle for Pops."

He pushed her off him. She easily rolled off him and sat on the floor, facing him. She settled her chin on the thin mattress.

"Hey, I just noticed you haven't denied the future daddy boyfriend part."

Clint simply looked at her, grinning. She started squealing and flailing.

"Atta boy! Why haven't you yet?"

Clint shrugged.

"I wanted things to settle down a bit, you know, so he didn't think I just decided that off the top of my head. After nearly dying and all that."

Darcy nodded, and narrowed her eyes at him.

"How are you going to do it?"

Clint pursed his lips.

"I'm still working on that."

She smiled at him, a mischievous light in her eyes.

"Need help with that?"

Clint sent an unimpressed gaze toward her.

"Last time you tried to help me, I ended up heart broken and on a year-long undercover mission."

Darcy glared at him, and slapped him over the head.

"First, I have to say the cellist was a lie, and it was entirely my father's fault. And the second part was yours, because you kind of overreacted. A bit. But I still love you idiots, so I will help you."

Clint watched her warily.

"Don't I get a say in the matter?"

She rolled her eyes and waved a finger at him.

"No, you lost your say about two stupid things ago. So when my father comes back, I'm going to tell him I want a nice dinner at a restaurant, to make up for Thanksgiving. Of course, I'm not going to show up, and you will have an entire evening to admit your undying love for my father. Don't mess up."

He saluted her lazily without raising his head.

"Yes ma'am."

She swatted him again on the head, and he snorted.

OOOOOOOO

Thanksgiving with Darcy had been a great thing. Sure, it'd have been better if Coulson and Natasha had been around, but it was very nice nonetheless. They got themselves a turkey, and spent the whole day cooking. Darcy was a great cook, and though Clint was alright too, he was more than happy to simply do what she told him. And he was learning that it was always easier to listen to the Coulsons rather than argue with them when they had made their mind over something.

Thanksgiving Thursday had been great, and they spent their evening groaning on the sofa after gorging themselves on turkey.

Black Friday was marked by the destruction of Stark Industry. They had a few stressful minutes because Clint hacked them into the comms, and they learnt Coulson went with Miss Potts to help Stark, but Coulson quickly spoke up to direct the team. Darcy relaxed into Clint's chest and sighed.

"Sometimes, I think it's better when I'm not sure what's going on."

Clint simply grunted.

Saturday brought the most fun Clint had in a while. Having Tony Stark declaring in front of the whole planet that he was Iron Man; well, he was rolling on the floor. Especially knowing how hard Coulson would have been working to avoid just that.

On Sunday, they went around the city, and came back just before dinner. They had barely started working on it when someone knocked on the door. Darcy bounced to open it like she lived there, and she squealed happily.

Suddenly she dragged a weary Coulson behind her. Clint froze for a moment, mind completely blown by the idea of his handler in his flat. Thankfully Darcy was keeping the other man busy as she led him to the dining table and dumped him into one of the chairs.

Clint took a few minutes to thaw back to normal, but Coulson wasn't able to tell. He was half asleep and remained that way throughout diner. He munched absentmindedly on a sandwich Darcy slipped him.

Around eight o'clock, the young woman took pity on her father and decided to bring him back home. Just before she exited, she winked at Clint.

"Six thirty, on Tuesday, fledgling. Clean up nice and don't be late!"

And with that they were gone. Leaving Clint alone to flail for a while because, hey, COULSON WAS IN HIS APARTMENT!

He wasn't sure he would be able to actually survive the real date.

Because it would happen, right?

Hopefully, the world wouldn't end between now and Tuesday.

OOOOOOOO

On Tuesday night, Clint was pacing around. Darcy had texted him the address of the restaurant sooner that day, and he was officially panicking. He had managed to pin Natasha down, and she was watching him bemusedly from his computer screen. Got to love Skype, but at the moment the super spy was no help at all.

"Come on Nat, give me pointers."

"Pointers for what?"

"Seducing Coulson!"

Natasha rolled her eyes at him.

"Not to burst your bubble, but the last time I had to seduce a decent man, well I don't actually remember. And you won't have to exert much effort."

Clint sighed.

"I don't want to screw this up."

Natasha glared at him.

"Sorry, Barton, but I'm too busy to deal with your insecurities right now. Take a deep breath, smile, and be nice. He'll be yours. Bye."

"Natasha!"

But she had already disconnected. Clint sighed, and braced his shoulders. He could do this.

OOOOOOOO

The restaurant Darcy chose was a small hole in the wall, a little Italian joint. Clint stopped for a moment, just enough to receive a message.

From: Darcy Lewis

To: Clint Barton

Got get him fledgling!

He chuckled. He could do this. He could do this. He could do this.

He should do this.

He entered the restaurant, and spotted Coulson before the waitress had a chance to come and see him. Coulson was looking out the window, and hadn't seen him yet. He waved her away, and weaved between the tables, until he reached his favorite agent. Coulson finally looked up at him, not having noticed him until then.

Clint might have been concerned if he didn't know Coulson had a sixth sense for danger as good as his.

He smiled tentatively, waving awkwardly.

"Hey."

Coulson stuttered for a second, before answering.

"Good evening."

Clint took a deep breath, stuffing his fists into his pockets, hunching his shoulders up.

"Darcy just called me. She won't make it. Something about a cute scientist called Parker."

Coulson's face fell, and he seemed about to get up and leave. Clint rushed in, not sure if was he was saying was actually understandable.

"DoyoumindifIkeepyoucompany?"

Coulson froze, and stared at him for a moment.

"I beg your pardon?"

Clint took a deep breathe.

"Do you mind if I keep you company?"

Was it Clint's imagination, or did Coulson just flush? Nah, must have been a trick of light. Coulson cleared his throat and nodded.

"By all means."

Not an enthusiastic agreement, but if it had been Clint wouldn't have believed it. He slid into the chair, and picked up the menu.

"You should take the pancetta ones."

Clint's eyes snapped up, and he stared at Coulson. Was he actually remembering the mission in Italy? That was four years ago. Coulson simply shrugged, and there was that possible flushing again.

"You liked it in Milan."

And yes, the handler did remember. Clint's heart quickened and he put the menu down.

"Right. I'll do that."

They stared at each other for a while, before Clint had enough, and swallowed.

"So, how was Tony Stark?"

Coulson groaned and dropped his head into his hand.

"Please don't mention Tony Stark ever again."

And with that they were gone. They made small talk until their first course arrived, and while eating it. Until Coulson, for some reason, put his fork down. Clint froze, a bite half way to his mouth, frowning at the other man. His handler seemed to be debating over something. Clint put his own fork down.

"Sir?"

Coulson's jaw clenched, and he looked at Clint for a long time, before starting to speak, voice grave and deep.

"When Fury told me he send you out, I was terrified."

Clint's eyes widened, and he floundered for words.

"Sir?"

Coulson held up a hand.

"Please, let me say this. I was scared because the last time you had been sent without me you were kidnapped, and you were brought back almost broken. You were scared and hurt and there was nothing I could do. And you went away again, without any back up, without me to have your back. And I hadn't even got the chance to talk to you properly."

His eyes turned earnestly in a way Clint had never seen them.

"Please. Don't do that again."

Clint had to clear his throat, but he mumbled in the end.

"I wasn't too keen on repeating the experience, sir. Feels a bit weird without you screaming at me about regs during ops."

Coulson chuckled awkwardly, and rubbed the back of his neck gingerly.

"Darcy was so panicked when you weren't answering your messages; it took me nearly five minutes to understand she had a way to contact you."

He glared good naturally at Clint, apparently not over that part yet. The archer smiled apologetically.

"In my defense, I didn't get much of a choice. That woman is evil."

Coulson chuckled good-naturally.

"Yes, she can be. Always trying to-"

Coulson paused, and his narrowed as he stared at Clint. After nearly a full minute of silence, the archer was starting to get uneasy.

"Sir?"

Coulson spoke slowly.

"Darcy was never supposed to show up, was she?"

Clint felt cold down his neck, and decided that feigning ignorance was the best course of action possible.

"Sir?"

Coulson didn't seem appeased, and continued to stare at him. His next words were even more careful than his last one.

"Barton, is this a date?"

Oh crap, oh fucking crap, he figured it out. The archer felt his mouth run away from him.

"Yes! No, I mean it doesn't have to be! If you don't want to, it can be, you know, two completely platonic colleagues, hanging out to catch up because we've barely seen each other in the past year. Right? Right. I can do the platonic colleague. I've done it for four years. Unless you don't want to, then it's fine too, you can go, no hard feelings, I swear it won't make things awkward, but I would understand if you never wanted to se-"

"Barton."

Coulson's sharp and precise tone cut through Barton's rambling. His face was calm and his eyes tentative.

"Do you want this to be a date?"

Way to make this about him. He stuttered.

"Yes, sir. Coulson. Agent. Agent Coulson, sir."

He waited, ready to jump out of his skin, for an answer, a response, anything, from Coulson. Finally the agent smiled a bit.

"Phil."

Clint was floored. So not the answer he was expecting.

"Pardon me?"

Coulson simply blushed, and that was definitely not a trick of light.

"If we are going to be dating, you're going to have to call me Phil."

Clint was pretty sure his heart was going to explode. It was doing its damn best to.

"Then I'm Clint, sir. Coulson. Phil."

_Phil _chuckled lightly, and finally took another bite. Clint stared at him, disbelieving.

"That's it? No rules, no restrictions?"

Coulson looked up, eyes tentative.

"Well, you should know that everything that happens on S.H.I.E.L.D. territory is recorded and brought to Fury's attention, but besides that, no, not really. I think you should be the one to put boundaries."

Clint cringed a bit at the idea of Fury watching the both of them 'having fun', but looked away.

"I don't want it to stop us."

Phil's face softened, and he reached warily to take Clint's hand. The archer's heart skipped a beat, but he quickly turned his to lock their fingers together. Phil wasn't getting that hand back before the end of the meal. The older agent smiled gently.

"Just because you don't want to, doesn't mean it won't. And I need you to talk to me, to stop me. Please don't try to play tough. Two panics attacks are more than enough as far as I'm concerned."

Clint grinned sheepishly and lowered his eyes.

"Yeah. Sorry about that."

Phil sighed, and squeezed his fingers briefly.

"Don't be. I should have known better the first time, and the second was plain stupid. But you are digressing."

Clint smiled wryly. He might as well accept it now; he would never be able to slip one under Phil's nose.

"I don't think I could... Sleep with you right now."

Phil nodded, apparently very at peace with that, probably expecting it.

"Sleeping as in having sex, or sleeping just sleeping?"

Clint worried his lips, and hated the small pang or fear at the idea of being in a bedroom with Phil.

"Both. I mean. Neither. I'm sorry, I wish I-"

Phil interrupted him with a squeeze of fingers, and Clint looked up. The older man's blue eyes were still as kind as before, not a trace of disdain or anger.

"It's okay, Clint, it's fine. We'll take it slow. You're getting better. You will get. Better about that too."

Clint's jaw tensed.

"You shouldn't have to wait."

Phil simply smiled.

"I've waited five years to get to the first date point, Clint. I can wait a bit more."

The archer smiled tentatively, and Phil answered in kind. After a while of comfortable silence as they finished their plates-without ever letting go of each other's hand-Phil spoke again.

"Darcy'll will be insufferable about this."

Clint laughed at bit, leaning back.

"Her matchmaking skills have a 50% rate for the moment, so she doesn't have anything to be smug about."

Coulson frowned.

"This was the second attempt? What was the first one, the text?"

Clint chuckled bitterly.

"Nah. That was the reason I met her, and she was pissed about it. I'm sorry though. I was drunk. Nah, the first attempt never actually got to you."

Phil cocked his head to the side. Clint didn't blush but it was a near thing.

"We kinda overheard you talking about the cellist to Hill and Sitwell before."

Coulson narrowed his eyes at Clint.

"Then you went and asked Fury for the solo mission."

Clint was definitely blushing this time. Coulson looked crushed.

"Clint, I-"

The archer interrupted him, because really, he had nothing to apologize for.

"No, Phil, don't. I'm a pathetic dude, it's fine."

Phil's mouth opened, surprised, before it clamped shut, and he tightened his grip around Clint's fingers. His voice was soft.

"Clint, if you ever dated someone, I would probably have spent a week moping about it at Darcy's place. You are not a pathetic man. I wonder why you haven't made a move before though."

Clint shrugged awkwardly.

"You never looked like you were being interested, and you were the only handler that would work with me. It didn't want to spoil that. Why didn't you?"

Phil grinned.

"It wouldn't have been right as long as I was your handler."

Clint frowned at him.

"It's against S.H.I.E.L.D.'s regs?"

Phil leaned back.

"Not at all. Fury doesn't give a shit as long as everyone his willing and it doesn't affect performances. No, I couldn't let myself. Too many people you considered as authority figures used and abused you. I didn't want to be one of them."

Clint stared at him for a long time. How was that man even real?

"So you wouldn't have made a move? Ever?"

Phil smiled calmly.

"Of course not. The mission you went with Hill was supposed to assess whether or not you could be considered as an independent specialist. To make sure you could work with everyone."

Clint's mind was brought back to said mission.

"Which is why you told me to behave."

Phil cocked his head, a silent an assent. At that moment, the waiter arrived with the check. A few minutes later, they were out, and heading for Clint's apartment. They never let go of each other's hand. The archer cleared his throat.

"So how do we do this?"

Phil smiled at him.

"Day by day. And you will never have to do anything you are not comfortable with."

Clint simply smiled goofily at Phil. He could do day by day. The agent's answering little smile felt like a treasure that only Clint would get to keep.

Far too soon, they arrived at Clint's door. Phil hesitated for a moment, and tugged lightly on the archer's hand. Clint turned toward him, heartbeat quickening.

"Clint? I would like to try something."

And slowly, so that the younger man could have all the time needed to pull away if he wanted, Phil took a step forward and kissed him.

It wasn't hesitant, but it was light, dry, and gentle. Clint let it settle for a second before he pressed back, and nibbled playfully at Phil's lower lip. Suddenly the mood changed, heating up.

Their tongues met, and Phil pressed closer and-

Clint pulled back, shaking his head.

"I'm sorry, I can't-"

Phil interrupted him yet again with a kind hand on his cheek. Clint looked up to Phil's eyes, finding them happy and glinting.

"It's okay Clint."

And he leaned forward to kiss the archer gently on the other cheek. He whispered against Clint's face.

"See you tomorrow."

And with that he turned away with one last smile and walked out. Clint stared for a second before he entered his apartment and indulged himself a little happy dance.

**A/N: Hey everybody! Sorry for the wait but my beta and I had pretty busy holidays, copped up in relatively remote places were an internet connection isn't always a given! So here it is! Only one chapter left!**


	10. Will you make up by my side?

Six months later

Clint was lying on his couch, feet dangling over the edge. His head was lying in Phil's lap, and the older agent was carding his fingers gently through it, absently, as he was watching one inane show or another. Clint had laid there with him since the beginning of it, but he was completely unable to tell anyone what it was about.

They had just gotten back from a taxing week long op, where Clint spent most of his time in a tree without moving. If it hadn't been for Phil's massages, he would have been a giant, walking, cramp at the moment.

And no, before you asked, it hadn't been anything more than massages. Even if Clint was pretty sure he was ready, he didn't know how to breach the subject, and he wasn't going to have his first time with Phil in the middle of a mission. But they were getting there, and even Phil knew it.

They had been sleeping together, as in the same bed, for almost a month now, and their initial fairly innocent kiss had evolved into full-fledged making out and heavy petting. Phil even managed to make Clint come in his pants once, which the archer blamed on yearlong celibacy and the desperate absence of self-brought enjoyment lately. Phil had simply grinned smugly.

He could be a frustrating bastard sometimes, especially considering Clint hadn't gotten him to come. He was a bit ashamed about that.

Phil cleared his throat, and spoke without ever stopping petting Clint.

"Darcy has found herself another boyfriend. Johnny Storm, I think his name is."

Clint snickered, and wriggled a bit to settle himself more comfortably.

"I take it your attempts to match her with Natasha failed yet another time."

Clint didn't need to look to know Phil's lips were pursed.

"I don't understand her need to be so stubborn."

Clint barked a laugh.

"Ok, first, pot and kettle. Second, maybe she is just that straight."

Phil tightened his hold on Clint's hair lightly, not nearly enough to hurt, but a reprimand as much as a soft smack upside the head would be. Clint simply chuckled, knowing it would only grate Phil a bit more.

"You are an idiot. And Natasha is a sexual orientation of her own."

Clint let out a full bellied laugh.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

Phil shrugged.

"You're gay and you wanted to sleep with her."

Clint pursed his lips, and tried to get up, but Phil pressed a firm hand on his chest. He relented with a sigh.

"I was desperate and depressed and do I need to add once again that it was a spectacular failure?"

Phil chuckled and let him go. Clint didn't move though. He had told Phil about the reason he attacked Agent Jackass about two weeks after their first date, and everything the idiot pushed Clint to do. Phil had been both pissed at the asshole, and surprised at Clint's reaction to it. If there was one person around here that knew that there was nothing romantic or sexual between Clint and Natasha, it was their handler.

The show ended, and Phil pushed Clint upward to go and get himself something in the kitchen. The archer let himself fall back on the couch and curled himself to make the most of the warmth his boyfriend-he hated to term, but lover implied a bit more fun on the bedroom part of the relationship- left behind.

It never failed to amaze and thrill him that Phil had gotten comfortable in his home so quickly. They spent most of their time there, since Phil's own apartment was depressingly bare, with the exception of Darcy's room. The only thing that caught Clint's eye when he went there was the arrow Phil always left on his nightstand. He recognized it fairly easily; it was the first batch S.H.I.E.L.D. R&D had crafted him, and he had only used it on one mission. The one where he shot an arrow through the eye of a scoot who had managed to stay hidden and was about to shoot Agent Coulson in the back.

Agent Coulson had known he could trust Hawkeye when he turned back to see the limp body fall to the ground. Hawkeye had known he could trust Agent Coulson when he didn't so much as twitch when the hard headed and rebellious assassin had drawn his bow in his direction.

The arrow had been delocalized in Clint's bedroom, as well as about half of Phil's wardrobe.

Clint was so lost in thought that he didn't notice Phil coming back until the agent was crouched in front of him, a soft smile on his face.

"Planning on giving me space?"

Clint eyed the cup of coffee in Phil's hand, and held his own imperatively. Phil rolled his eyes fondly at that, but still passed the cup to him. The archer took a good sip-Phil's coffee was always the best -before handing it back to the agent.

"What are you going to do for it?"

Phil's lips twitched upward, and he knew perfectly well what Clint was fishing for. He leaned forward to kiss him slowly and gently, in the perfectly non invading way the older man alone possessed, which led Clint to believe there was no one else more entitled to help him get over his problems in his head.

The kept kissing, neither one of them inclined in any way to let the other go. Clint had a brief thought that the position couldn't be comfortable for Phil, but the agent didn't complain, and would probably take offense if his boyfriend pointed it out.

The kiss in itself wasn't different from hundreds of others they had shared over the last half year. It was pretty freaking chaste compared to some of them. However, for some reason he couldn't really explain, even in his own head, something uncoiled in his chest, and he nearly melted into Phil. The agent brought up a hand to stabilize his boyfriend who almost fell over him. He looked up, eyes not quite concerned but very curious.

"Clint?"

The archer tried to send everything he felt, everything he would never be able to voice properly in a million years, in his eyes and his tone.

"Phil."

Clint could see the exact moment his boyfriend understood the sudden light in his eyes, after the blank confusion. For a long moment, he searched Clint's eyes for something, anything that could hint that the archer wasn't ready for this, that he was doing this for the wrong reasons.

That he felt obligated. That was Phil's worse fear in their relationship; that he was forcing Clint into something. It had been a concern ever since he became his handler, and it was even worse now, after Clint's kidnapping.

But he didn't speak, and he didn't ask. He didn't ask if Clint was sure, because there was no way Clint would be able to lie to Phil, not now, not ever, and he wasn't, couldn't be sure. But he wanted it, he wanted it so much it hurt sometimes, and at the moment there was nothing in his head to stop him.

Phil must have seen his resolve, because he finally straightened himself, holding out his hand for Clint. He took a moment to put the cup of coffee on the end table, before he cupped Clint's face softly with both hands and kissed him gently.

"Thank you."

His eyes were so open and earnest Clint couldn't do anything more than swallow and nod. Neither of them was good with words, especially when it came about talking about feelings, but Clint was definitely worse. Phil never seemed to mind, though, and he looked like Clint's weak nod had told him everything he ever hoped to hear.

He took Clint's hand, and slowly led him toward the bedroom, only stopping once they were inside to close the door and kiss Clint once more. The archer let him lead, more than happy to go with the flow.

Finally, Phil pushed him backward until the back of Clint's knees hit the bed and he was lying on the bed. He stayed there, spread on top of the comforters, watching as Phil seemed to debate over something.

Apparently coming to a decision, Phil crawled onto the bed until he was over Clint, propping himself up with his arms on either side of the younger man's head. He started kissing him chastely until Clint felt himself relax once more. He hadn't even noticed he had tensed up, but of course Phil had.

After what seemed like an eternity, Phil pulled out of the kiss and leaned forward until his body was covering Clint's, their hips rubbing together. Clint wasn't hard yet, but if Phil kept this up, it wouldn't take long. Phil's mouth came to rest just beside his ear.

"Do you trust me to take care of you? Do you trust me to make you feel good, darling?"

Clint's arms tensed and pushed on Phil's chest until the agent was looking at him with an arched eyebrow.

"Not Darling. He-she-whatever, they used it, and-Just, not darling."

Phil pondered over that for a while before offering another one.

"Baby?"

The tone was sultry and low, and that combinted with the sweet name sent a shudder down Clint's body right to his groin. Phil smiled a bit.

"Definitely baby."

he went down again, kissing along his jaw from his ear to his mouth and back again, whispering in between.

"So, baby? Will you let me?"

Clint nodded desperately, and Phil huffed a small laugh as he started to lower his mouth down the archer's neck. He pulled away for a second, and Clint helped him get rid of his shirt. The older man continued down, his tongue teasing at Clint's nipples and teeth nipping at his navel.

Clint was moaning and gasping and growling, and honestly, probably a lot of others things he wasn't even aware he was doing. He knew that the only things keeping him from writhing and arching into Phil's touch was his soothing hands at his sides.

Phil didn't stop until he reached the waistband of Clint's jeans, and raised his eyes for a second, making sure the archer was still with him, not having a panic attack or something of the sort. When he was reassured, he smiled softly, and kissed Clint's belly.

The archer sighed, and unclenched one of his hands from where it was clutching the sheets to plunge it into Phil's hair. He wasn't tugging or gripping, simply seeking contact and stability. Seeking Phil.

The older man began to work on Clint's jeans, all the while whispering against the archer's heated skin. Clint couldn't hear him, but the brush of warm air was as good enough, and he lifted his hips helpfully to get rid of his pants faster.

Phil made a soft surprised noise when he saw Clint was going commando, but really, the archer had been exhausted, and he hadn't planned to do anything more with his day than cuddling with Phil, so why should he have bothered with underwear?

He could see his cock wasn't fully hard yet, but it was getting there quickly. Especially if Phil kept up his ministrations. The older man's hands had been pretty absent until this point, anchors more than anything else, the man apparently preferring to use his mouth to map out his soon to be lover. now, though, Phil decided he'd rather watch the man in his bed, and he let his agile fingers do the work.

He started tracing the sharp hipbones, and drifted further downward. He bypassed Clint's cock, to the archer's unending frustration, and went to lightly cup his balls. Clint's empty hand flew to his mouth, muffling himself, before he could fill the room with his cries.

"No."

Phil's firm voice brought his focus back to him. The hand had stopped, and Clint whined in protestation. Phil let go of Clint's jewels and took the archer's wrist, forcing the hand away.

"I want to hear you. I need to know how you feel."

The voice, so calm, so controlled, so composed, destroyed any chance Clint ever had of not listening to Phil. He tried to form a coherent thought.

"I need-Phil please, I need-"

Phil kissed Clint's hipbone again.

"What, Clint? What do you need?"

Clint groaned.

"More. Please."

Phil's eyes lit up.

"More, baby? I can do that. Do you want me to suck you?"

Oh fuck. Clint could officially do nothing more than nod frantically and hope Phil got the message. He apparently did because he chuckled fondly, and took Clint's cock in his hand.

The contact sent sparks through Clint's entire body, and he arched into Phil's touch, keening all the while. Phil stroked him a few times, and Clint was past words. He wasn't even sure where he was anymore.

"Phil..."

Finally, Phil took him in his mouth, and Clint's vision whited out, his universe narrowing to only the sensation,

and Phil,

Phil,

Phil!

PHIL!

Clint came with a loud yell, panting as he fell back down on the mattress. Slowly his vision returned, but he could do nothing more than lie in a sated, boneless heap and watch Phil. The agent smiled a bit at him, Clint's seed running out of the corner of his mouth. If Clint had any energy left, he would be already on top of the other man, licking it away and trying to chase himself in Phil's mouth. Mostly to be sure this really did happen. That he really did just get the best damn blowjob from Phil Coulson, agent of S.H.I.E.L.D.

But for the moment he settled for watching. There would always be later. He started to frown when he saw Phil pulling away, and working on things Clint learned to recognize as before bed rituals, despite the quite obvious bulge in his pants. He propped himself on one elbow.

"What're you doin'?"

Phil looked up, pleasantly surprised.

"Pardon?"

Clint wanted to roll his eyes, but that required more energy than he had to spare at the moment. As words escaped him, he simply looked pointedly at Phil's crotch. The agent sighed, and his eyes were gentle.

"You don't have to-"

"No."

Clint's tone was sharp, because he wasn't going to be the only one to cum tonight. Phil looked startled.

"Clint-"

"Please."

Clint had learned that a 'please', a real one, was the best way to win against Phil's stubbornness; especially when it was something Phil clearly wanted as much as Clint did. The older man swallowed, and walked until he was at the foot of the bed, eyes staring into Clint's.

"What do you want?"

Clint unleashed the full power of his gaze, and Phil fell on the bed, crawling up to Clint, as if hypnotized. Clint waited until their mouths were leveled before commanding roughly.

"Fuck me."

And that was more than Phil's self-control could take. He fell onto Clint, mouth searching hungrily, as if he may die without Clint's embrace. As if the archer's mouth was his lifeline.

Clint realized how much Phil had been holding himself back, because he had wanted this to be about Clint. The archer would have to work on that. Phil pulled away with a mighty gasp. His hips were twitching, rubbing the tented fabric of his pants against Clint's thigh. The younger man almost regretted having already come, because that had to feel fantastic against a hard cock. Phil was panting into his ear.

"Oh baby, please tell me you have-"

Clint gasped.

"Third drawer from the top."

Phil grabbed the condom and the lube, and worked a bit of the liquid onto his fingers. He didn't try to flip Clint over, for which he was grateful. He wanted to see Phil's face. He needed to see what he looked like when he came.

He tensed a bit when the first finger breached him, but quickly relaxed under Phil's wicked mouth. The second one grazed his prostate, and he pushed into Phil, the other man's hard cock rubbing against his balls. Clint moaned as he felt his cock harden again slowly, and Phil growled.

He pressed a third finger in, despite Clint's urgings of just getting on with it already. Phil Coulson was nothing if not thorough.

Suddenly the older man pulled back, and Clint shivered at the cold air. He opened his mouth to protest, but was stopped when Phil quickly undid his pants, and let them fall on the floor, gaze hungry and urgent.

In a fraction of second, he was on top of Clint again. One hand by the archer's head to steady himself, the other on guiding his cock to the archer's hole. Clint sighed when he felt the blunt touch, and nodded frantically at the hesitation, Phil's way to ask if he was ready.

Slowly, inch by agonizing inch, Phil penetrated him until their hips were mashed together. The older man rested his forehead on Clint's, waiting for his okay. Clint took a deep breath, and wrapped his legs around his-now it was official-lover's waist, and started rocking his hips.

Phil got right on the program, and started thrusting in slow and hard. Clint yelped each time his prostate was hit. He wrapped one arm around Phil's shoulders, another around his ribs; a steel band keeping them pressed chest to chest. They breathed in each other's air, and lost the knowledge of where their own body stopped and the other's began.

Phil came first, body tensing and arching into the archers, unable to stop himself, but he collected himself just enough to pat down to Clint's own member. He brought the younger man back over the edge with a couple of hard and precise strokes on his now again rock hard cock.

Phil rolled off Clint, but gathered the limp archer in his arms, cuddling him so that the blonde head was tucked under his chin. He stretched to feel around into a drawer, and took out a cloth that he used to wipe off Clint's semen. After that he removed the condom, and threw it in the trash.

Clint was staring at the cloth, trying to remember when he put _that _in his nightstand, when he came to the conclusion he hadn't, he looked up at Phil as well as he could from where his head was. He arched an eyebrow that was received with a small sheepish smile.

"I might have been a bit optimistic."

Clint beamed goofily.

"You were right, though."

Phil chuckled.

"Aren't I always?"

Clint swatted him lightly on the chest with a muttered "Smartass." Phil simply tightened his hold on the archer. Clint smiled happily, and nosed Phil's neck lazily. Phil stroked his back calmly. The blond sighed.

"I think I might be falling asleep, sir."

Phil looked down and kissed the top of Clint's head. He whispered fondly.

"Is that so, Agent Barton?"

Clint nipped weakly at his neck.

"Hm yeah. You should do the same."

Phil hummed non-committal.

"Why is that?"

Barton kissed his shoulder and slid down to rest his head on Phil's chest, eyelids drooping.

"Because I still owe you two orgasms, sir."

Phil chuckled, and saw the exact moment Clint fell asleep, perfectly relaxed, and trusting. Phil watched him for a moment and letting himself drift away, happily chasing after the man he loved.

**A/N: **

**So this is the end. Hold your breath and count to ten.**

**Sorry. Wrong song.**

**Really though, it's a bit weird that this fic is done! Thank you to all the people who took a moment to leave a comment, it always brightened the dullest of days! Thanks to my beta who did amazing work on this!**

**I love you all, and my next text should be up in a short time!**

**Greeny**


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